Dreamspell
by IMironicANDyoureNOT
Summary: A story set both in the present and the past. Sleep disorder specialist, Arthur Kirkland who has been diagnosed with a fatal brain tumor, encounters the remarkable discovery of dream-induced time travel. He uses himself as a test-subject, transferring himself to 14th century France, where he begins to fall for a man he was determined to hate. But isn't it all just a dream?
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

**Paris 1376**

_Even I would have killed for thee._

Dawn lit the words etched in stone, bade him draw near. Aye, he would have killed for him, though not as it was told he had done. Still, this day he would die. For three years, he had languished in this wretched cell awaiting a trial that was only a formality, and yesterday he had been brought before his peers. Now, with the newborn day, the Lieutenant would take him through the city to Smithfield where a noose awaited him.

He rose from his pallet and crossed his cell to where he would soon die. Head and shoulders blocking the light that shone through the small window, he traced each letter through to _thee_.

"Arthur," he whispered, remembering everything about him, from the gentle curve of his lips to his long legs to mannerisms not of this world. More, he remembered the last time they had kissed and the promise he had made to him – a promise not kept. But at least he had loved.

The door opened, but it was not the Lieutenant who came for him. Though the years had cruelly aged the man who stepped inside, rounding shoulders that had once been broad, there was no mistaking the fifth King Charles.

"Bonnefoy." The king inclined his head.

It was three years since Francis had granted such an audience, but he remembered himself and bowed, "Your majesty."

Charles peered into his prisoner's face. "You are prepared to die?"

"I am."

"Yet still you say it was not you?"

Francis stared at him, those few moments all the confirmation needed of the idle talk of guards. Charles' mind was on the wane. Was the recent death of his son responsible? Though not since the queen's passing seven years ago could he be said to be right in the head, this was worse, as evidenced by his neglect of affairs of state. The great King Charles was no longer worthy of the crown, the power he had once wielded now in the hands of his greedy mistress, Natalia Arlovskaya.

"I trusted you," Charles said, his jaw quivering in his fleshy face.

"When all opposed your wardship of your nephews, I granted it. When my Pierre was attacked, I would not believe 'twas you."

It was an opening for Francis to defend himself, but he was done with that.

"Have you naught to say?" Charles demanded.

"I have had my say, my liege. There is no more."

Charles cursed, turned to leave, and came back around. "Beg my forgiveness and mayhap I shall allow you an easier death."

"There is naught for which I require your forgiveness." This did not mean he did not seek the forgiveness of others. But it was too late for that.

Anger staining the king's face, he looked around the cell and lingered on the words that covered the walls. "I was told of this. The troubadours pay well for the guards to bring them these words by which they compose songs of love."

Francis considered all he had carved into the stone these past years – words never spoken.

"Why do you do it?"

Feeling a pang at his center, Francis said, "That he might know."

Edward shook his head. "You loved wrong in choosing a man such as that when you could have had –" His voice broke. "I would have forgiven you anything, except my Pierre." He stepped from the cell.

As the door swung closed, Francis stood motionless, each moment that passed drawing him nearer his last. Finally he crossed to his pallet and retrieved the worn spoon that was only one of many to have lent itself to his writings. Thumbing the rough edge of all that remained of its handle, he eyed the last words he had inscribed: _Even I would have killed for thee_. They said so much, but there was much more.

When they came for him an hour later, the final line read: _And now I shall die for thee._ As he stood to be shackled, he considered his words carved around the walls. They were for Arthur, wherever he was.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

**University Sleep Disorders Clinic  
London, England**

"I was there," Gilbert said amid the tick and hum of instruments. "Really there."

Arthur waited for his eyes to brighten and a grin to surface his weary face. Nothing. Not even a flicker of humor. Dropping the smile that was as false as the hair sweeping his brow, he said, "Sorry, Gilbert, I'm not buying it." He turned to the bedside table and peered at the machine that would monitor his sleep cycles.

"You think I'm joking?"

Of course he was. For all the horror Gilbert Beilschmidt had endured during the War, he was an incorrigible joker, but this time he had gone too far. He unbundled the electrodes.

"I'm serious, Arthur."

His other subjects called him Dr. Kirkland, but he and Gilbert went back to when he had been a doctoral student and was his first subject in a study of the effects of sleep deprivation on dreams. That was four years ago and, at this rate, it might be another four before he was able to present his latest findings. If he had that long…

Feeling the snugness of the knit cap covering his head, he said, "Serious, huh? I've heard that one before."

The familiar squeak of wheels announced his approach. "It happened."

Meanwhile, the clock kept ticking, the minute hand climbing toward midnight.

"Listen to me, Arthur. What I have to tell you is important—"

"Time travel through dreams, Gilbert?" He uncapped a tube of fixative and squeezed a dab onto the electrodes' disks. "How on earth did you hatch that one?" Though he might concede some dreams prophesied the future, time travel was too far out there. "Let's get you hooked up."

"That's not what I'm here for."

He turned and found himself sandwiched between the table and the wheelchair that served as Gilbert's legs.

"I've been holding out on you, Arthur. I would have told you sooner, but I couldn't—not until I was certain it wasn't just an incredibly real dream."

"Come on, Gilbert. It's midnight, I haven't had dinner yet, and I'm tired."

He clamped a hand around his arm. "I'm dead serious."

Though he knew he had nothing to fear from him, alarm leapt through him when a tremor passed from Gilbert to him. Never had he seen Gilbert like this, and certainly he had never taken his jokes this far. Was it possible that what he said was true—rather, he _believed_ it was true? If so, he was hallucinating, a side-effect not uncommon among his subjects, especially beyond sixty hours of sleep deprivation. But he had never known Gilbert to succumb to hallucinations, not during an episode four months back when his consecutive waking hours broke the two hundred mark. That had complications all its own.

He released him and pushed back. "Sorry."

Arthur stared at Gilbert. The whites of his eyes blazed red, the circles beneath shone like bruises, the lines canyoning his face went deeper, Thirty-five years old, yet he looked sixty, just as he had when his two hundred and two waking hours had put him to sleep so deep he had gone comatose. But he had reported eighty-seven waking hours when he called an hour ago.

He had lied. Arthur nearly cursed. He knew what extreme sleep deprivation looked like, especially on Gilbert. True, he had cried wolf before, convinced him of the unimaginable to the point he would have bet his life he was telling the truth, but this came down to negligence. And he was guilty as charged.

He consulted his clipboard and scanned the previous entry. Five weeks since his last episode, a stretch considering he rarely made it three weeks without going a round with his souvenir from the War. But why would he under-report his waking hours? Because of the safeguard that was put in place following his coma, one that stipulated all subjects who exceeded one hundred and fifty waking hours were to be monitored by a medical doctor?

Knowing his own sleep would have to wait—not necessarily that he would have slept since he was also intimate with insomnia—he said. "How many hours, Gilbert."

He pushed a hand through his silvery hair. "Eighty… nine."

"Not _one hundred_ eighty nine?"

"Why would I lie?"

"You tell me."

"I would if you'd listen."

Realizing he was picking an argument when he should be collecting data, he rolled a stool beneath him. "Okay, talk."

He dragged a tattooed hand down his face. "The dreams aren't dreams. Not anymore. When I went comatose, I truly crossed over, and that's when I realized it was more than a dream. And I could have stayed." He slammed his fist on the arms of his wheelchair. "If not for the doctors and their machines, I _would_have stayed!"

Pain stirred at the back of Arthur's head. "You would have died."

"In this time. There I would have lived."

Then he truly believed he had been transported to the Middle Ages of his serial dream. Interesting. "I see."

"Do you?"

Was this more than sleep deprivation? Had Gilbert snapped? "I know it seems real—"

"Cut with the psychobabble! Sleep deprivation is the key to the past. It's a bridge. A way back. A way out."

He took a deep breath. "Out of what?"

"This." He looked at the stumps of his legs, wheeled forward, and tapped his forehead. "And this."

Stunned by his trespass, Arthur caught his breath.

He sank back in his wheelchair. "In my dreams, I have legs again. Have I told you that?"

He gave himself a mental shake. "Many times."

"I walk. I run. I feel my legs down to my toes. It's as if the war never happened."

He laid a hand on his shoulder. "It did happen."

"Not six hundred years ago."

He lowered his hand. "What makes you believe this isn't just an incredibly real dream?"

"I don't know the places in this dream, I've never seen any of the people."

_That_ was his proof? Though dreams were often forged of acquaintances and familiar landscapes, it wasn't unusual to encounter seemingly unfamiliar ones.

Gilbert reached behind his wheelchair, pulled a book from his knapsack, and pushed it into his hands. "I found this in an antique book shop a while back."

It was old, the black cover worn white along the edges, all that remained of its title a barely legible stamped impression. Arthur put his glasses on. "The Sins of the Count of…?"

"Givry," Gilbert supplied.

Arthur forced a laugh. "Catchy title." He ran his fingers across the numbers beneath. "1373 to 1399. History… never my best subject."

"He's the one."

"Who?"

"Francis Bonnefoy, the man who murdered his nephews so he could claim Givry for himself."

Gilbert's dream adversary. Though he had told him the dream arose from a historical account, he hadn't named the infamous Count or the French Counthood for which Bonnefoy had committed murder.

"I'm in there." Gilbert nodded at the book.

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"Look at the pages I marked."

A half dozen slips protruded from the book. He opened to the first and skimmed the text. There it was: Sir Gilbert Beilschmidt. Okay, so someone in the past had first claim to a semblance of Gilbert Beilschmidt's name. What proof was that? He read on. With the King of France's blessing, the errant knight pledged himself to the safekeeping of orphaned brothers Abel and Philippe. He read the remaining passages, the last a single sentence that told of Sir Gilbert's disappearance prior to the boys' fiery deaths.

Arthur set the book on the bedside table. "You're telling me you're Sir Gilbert?"

"I am."

"Gil, just because your name—"

"When I first read it, there was no mention of Beilschmidt, His name—my name—appeared only after the dreams began. And when the book says I disappeared, guess where I went."

_Pound_, went his headache.

"That's when I came out of the coma, Arthur."

Worse and worse. "But you've reported having these dreams since then. If what you say is true, where are _those_ experiences documented?"

"They're not. Though I've returned four times since the coma, the present keeps pulling me back before I can save the boys from that murderer." Fury brightened his eyes a moment before his gaze emptied.

"Gil?"

"Fifty waking hours isn't enough, not even a hundred. It takes more."

This explained the man before him whose years came nowhere near the age grooving his face. "Two hundred?"

"It's a start."

He held up a hand. "The truth. How many hours?"

"Two hundred seventeen."

He came off the stool as if slung from it. "You know how dangerous—"

"Better than anyone."

He didn't look like a madman, but he had to be. "You're forcing it, aren't you? You could have slept days ago, but you won't let yourself."

"Dead on."

Arthur reached to rake his fingers through his hair, but stopped mid-air. There was too little left beneath the cap, stragglers that served as painful reminders of his former self. He laid a hand to Gilbert's arm. "You're going to kill yourself."

His smile was almost genuine. "That's the idea."

Over-the-edge crazy. Deciding his efforts were better spent admitting him to the university hospital, he straightened.

"I'm not going." Gilbert said.

For all his delusions, he could still read him like a book. "Please, Gilbert, you have to."

"It's my way out."

_Pound Pound._ "You think I'm going to stand by and let you die?"

"You don't have a say in it."

"But you're my patient. I can't—"

"You think I like living in this thing?" He gripped the arms of his wheelchair. "When I lost my legs, I lost everything—my family, my career, all of it. All I do is take up space, and I'm tired of it. You have no idea what it's like."

Didn't he? His world was crumbling, and though he had no choice as to whether tomorrow came, Gilbert did.

Gilbert's gaze swept Arthur's cap, and he muttered a curse. "I'm sorry, Arthur."

He crossed the observation room and stared through the window at the monitoring equipment.

"How's the chemo going?"

He tossed his head and achingly acknowledged how much he missed his hair. "It's going well." A lie. There had been progress early on, but the tumor was gaining ground.

"The truth, Arthur," Gilbert turned Arthur's own words against him.

He swung around. "This isn't about me."

"You're wrong." He wheeled toward him. "My dream is a way out of the hell I'm living. And it could be yours."

Nuts. Positively nuts.

He rolled to a halt. "Not my dream, of course. Something of your own choosing.

_Pound Pound Pound_. He stepped around him. "I need to take something for this headache."

"You think I'm crazy."

He looked over his shoulder. "I'll be back in a few minutes, and we'll discuss this some more."

After a long moment, he said, "Sure. Can I borrow your pen?"

He tossed it to him and steered a course to the washroom where he gulped down the pills prescribed for just such reminders of his tumor.

Though he rarely did more than glance in the mirror, he searched his features: sunken eyes, ashen skin, pinched mouth, the hollows beneath his cheeks evidence of his twenty-pound weight loss. As for the hair sweeping his brow, it and the knit cap to which the strands were attached as a gift from his well-meaning mother. He looked almost as bad as Gilbert, far from the green-eyed "looker" he had been called before…

Almost wishing he was as crazy as Gilbert, he hurried to his office. After being reassured two orderlies were on their way, he returned to the sleep room. It was empty. "No." He groaned. "Don't do this, Gil."

He ran down the corridor, through the reception area, out the glass doors into the balm of London's summer night, but there was no sign of Gilbert or the cab that had delivered him to the clinic. Where had he gone? It would be a place where no one knew him, where he wouldn't be bothered if he didn't show his face for days. Unfortunately, the possibilities could run into the thousands.

What about the cab? If he could find the company he had used, perhaps he could discover where they had taken him.

He went back inside and, in the sleep room, was the pen Gilbert had borrowed on the bedside table, beneath it his book. He had forgotten it. Or had he?

He opened _The Sins of the Count of Givry._ If not that he recognized Gilbert's handwriting, he would have flipped past the inscription on the inside cover. He slid his glasses on. _Arthur,_ it read, _think of this as a postcard. Your friend, Gilbert._

"Oh, Gil." Try though he might, he knew that if he found him it would be too late. But knowing it and accepting it were two different things. Keeping an eye closed against the pain hammering at his head, he tucked the book under an arm and hurried to his office.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_A way out._

Gilbert's words of a month ago whispered to Arthur as he stared at the reflection of a man he recognized less and less each day. Radiation and chemotherapy had taken the last of his hair. And for what? The hope he could beat unbeatable odds. Four weeks, eight at the outside, Arthur Kirkland, twenty-six years young, would go out with a whimper.

"A way out," he muttered. "Crazy Gilbert."

He tightened the belt of his robe and crossed his living room to the glass doors of his condo. Stepping out onto the balcony, he sighed as cool morning air caressed his bare scalp. It was just what he needed to get through another waking hour. How many was he up to? He glanced at his watch. Seventy-two, meaning it was Monday.

Since forced to take medical leave two weeks ago, he had found it increasingly difficult to track his days – until this past Friday when he began marking time by the hour.

He turned back inside. The journal lay on his desk on a pile of paperwork that represented eighteen months of research. Research that would molder in some forgotten closet if the clinic director had his way. But he wouldn't let that happen. If it killed him – ha! – He would conclude his study with data culled from his own dream experiences.

He dropped into the desk chair and reached for the journal. It would be his fourth entry, likely the last before his self-imposed sleep deprivation compelled him to sleep. With a quaking hand, he wrote:

_8:25 a.m. Seventy-two waking hours. Not sure I can make it to ninety-six. Hands trembling, eyes burning, headache worsening, nauseated. No hallucinations, some memory lapses. Can't stop thinking about Gil._

He lifted the pen and recalled the night he had borrowed it. For four days he had clung to the hope he lived, but on the fifth day, his lifeless body was found in an abandoned warehouse.

Arthur swallowed hard. "Wherever you are, I pray you've finally found peace." He rested his forehead in his hand and squeezed his eyes closed. Like a thief, sleep reached for him.

He jumped and steadied himself with a hand on the chair. "Twenty-four hours," He murmured. Could he do it? His chronic insomnia having never exceeded sixty, he was ahead by twelve, but another twenty-four?

What he needed was a good book. Unfortunately, as his library consisted mostly of textbooks and periodicals, the best he could do was _The Sins of the Count of Givry_. He eyed it where it lay on the sofa table. It had to be less dry than his other choices.

Sliding on his glasses, he retrieved the book and fingered the ridges and recesses of the worn title, then opened past Gilbert's inscription to the first chapter. "1373," he read aloud as he began to walk the room.

An hour later, he gave up. Not because the reading was dry, but his comprehension was nearly nil. One thing was clear from the little he had learned about Francis Bonnefoy, the Count of Givry: he had no conscience. Not only was he suspected of having a hand in the accident that killed his brother, the Count of Givry, but as a military advisor during the "Hundred Years War," he had been party to the atrocious massacre of men, women, and children following a siege on the city of Harwich. So what chance had two little boys, aged four and six?

He trudged into the kitchen, opened the freezer, and stuck his face into it. Frigid air returning him to wakefulness, he congratulated himself on that bit of genius and closed the door. "And caffeine will do it one better," he murmured.

After the coffee maker sputtered its last, putting an exclamation mark on the smell of freshly brewed coffee, Arthur carried the pot to his cup with a hand that shook so violently that nearly as much made it on the counter as in the cup. When the caffeine kicked in on his third serving, he reached for Gil's book.

The seventh chapter, marked by a slip of paper, held a scant introduction to Sir Gilbert Beilschmidt. Then came the mysterious Sir Pierre and a color illustration of the type of clothing a fourteenth-century man might wear—a pale yellow coat that reached to the knees, with long sleeves, the collar set with red and blue jewels, and tall boots with ridiculous stockings beneath them.

Arthur returned to the text. According to the author, Sir Pierre made his first appearance at King Charles' court in 1372. No one knew where he came from, his surname, age, or whether he was of the nobility. The only thing for certain was that the King wasted no time numbering him among his services.

During the summer of 1373, two months after appointing Sir Gilbert Beilschmidt to watch over the Bonnefoy boys, King Charles dispatched Sir Pierre to Givry to care for the parentless children. Though it was suggested his other mistress, the ambitious Natalia Arlovskaya, had worked her influence over Charles in order to rid herself of a rival, the author was more given to belief that the king had simply tired of Sir Pierre.

Arthur trudged past the sofa, pushed his glasses up, and rubbed his eyes. He resettled the glasses.

On the approach to the castle of Givryn Spire where the boys resided, Sir Pierre's baggage train was attacked and his entourage murdered. Of the man himself, no trace was ever found. The one responsible for the carnage: Francis Bonnefoy, the author suggested. Sir Gilbert Beilschmidt, fearing for the boys' lives, spirited them away that very day…

Arthur didn't recall reading this particular passage at the clinic, and there was no slip of paper to mark its reference to Sir Gilbert. Likely, Gil had lost the marker without realizing it. However, when he dug further into the book, he found three other unmarked references. Odd, especially as they were more significant than the ones Gil had asked him to read. But nothing compared to the final reference near the end of the book. He read it twice. Hadn't Sir Gilbert disappeared at the books end? Not according to this passage that stated that, following two weeks of pursuit, Bonnefoy overtook him. Swords were drawn and the knight's life severed by the man who would be Count.

Of course, it _was _a month since he had read the passages. Was that it? Or was he delusional? He shrugged off the niggling at the back of his mind and, a short while later, slammed the book on Bonnefoy's ascension to "count" following the deaths of his nephews in a fire of unknown origin shut.

"Murderer," he muttered. And caught his toe on the sofa table. The book flew from his hand and landed on the floor at about the same time he did. It would have hurt, but he was too numb to feel anything but relief at gaining a prone position.

_Get up, walk it off. Only ten hours to go. _He forced his head up. Seeing the book had fallen open to Gilbert's inscription, he pulled it toward him, read his scrawled inscription, and pressed his forehead to the carpet. "A postcard, Gilbert?"

_Don't close your eyes_. But he was too busy melting into the carpet to give more than a glancing thought to hooking himself up to the EEG he had borrowed from the clinic. Sleep descended, scattering his thoughts here, there, everywhere – until they met the enigmatic Sir Pierre.

What would it have been like to live in an era of knights and castles? To have been of the privileged class? To dress in coats with beautiful golden embroidery and long tails? To be at the service of a mighty king? To travel across country in a baggage train with entourage? Imagine that…

The sweet smell of earth, the breath of a breeze, a gentle tapping against his cheek. Wondering who disturbed him, Arthur opened his eyes. Not who, but what. He stared through the bangs fluttering across his eyes—thick, lightly-colored, the likes of which he hadn't seen in a long time. A tremor of expectation swept him, but he let it go no further.

This was a dream. When he awakened, not a single strand would remain. He fingered the lightness and lingeringly pushed it out of his eyes.

A moan sounded from somewhere nearby. He blinked and took in his surroundings. Only then, with a forest spread before him, did he realize he was prostrate. Where had his dreaming taken him to this time? And what was the vibration beneath his cheek?

He rolled onto his back and stared up at a canopy of trees. It was beautiful the way the sunlight pierced the leaves, thrusting shafts of light into a place that might otherwise appear sinister. There was a twitter of birds and, somewhere, the babble of a brook. It was vibrant, as if—

A mordant scent struck him, causing the dream to veer in a direction he preferred it didn't go. He sat up and caught his breath. Twenty or more feet out, the bodies of a dozen men were gored and grotesquely bent, most conspicuously two draped across an overturned wagon. And there was more. He felt it, feared it, tried to ignore it, but looked around. Behind him lay a horse, its teeth bared in death, its rider pinned beneath, the man's chest sliced open and his arm nearly severed.

Arthur clenched his teeth and lowered his gaze to where the blood of the beast and man pooled on the ground. It spread outward, running in rivulets towards him. Nausea rose as he followed its path the toe of his boot. Knee to ankle, crimson coated the leather, causing it to adhere to his skin.

Not a dream. A nightmare.

He scrambled to his feet.

"My Lord?" Someone croaked.

Arthur forced himself to look among the bodies. Had he ever before had such a vivid dream? Swallowing hard, he settled his gaze on the man beneath the horse who stared at him through half-hooded eyes.

"My lord… are you…?" He reached with his uninjured arm.

He knew he ought to flee before his imagination transformed him into something more heinous, but he couldn't turn his back on him. Too, this was only a dream. Though it might cause him to awaken in a cold sweat, that was the worst he would suffer.

When he dropped to his knees beside the man, he saw that, though he had closed his eyes, his wheezing chest told he still lived.

"What can I do?" he asked.

"I saw the miscreant's… device." His thick accent sounded almost French.

"Device?"

"Had his medallion… in my hand." He spread his empty fingers. "Upon it a wyvern… two-headed… above a shield… bend sinister."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

He lifted his lids. His eyes, pinpoints of pain, traced his face. "You are not my lord."

"No, I—"

He caught hold of his arm. "What have you done with him?"

For a man about to die, he exhibited incredible strength. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He dragged him towards him, affording Arthur a close-up look of his death mask. "You come to steal from the dead," he spat, flecking him with saliva.

A more morbid dream Arthur could not recall. He wrenched backward and broke free, but not before he tore at his sleeve.

He shot to his feet and nearly tripped over his boots. Why were these pants so tight? And why was he wearing something like this in the middle of a forest?

Once more, he felt the vibration through the ground. It was stronger. Nearer. Horses? From which direction?

He whipped his head to the side and the breeze caught his hair, sifting it across his forehead. Though he longed to pause and relish the feel of it, something bad was coming.

_It's only a dream. Stay put and get it over with, and you'll be awake in no time._ But he couldn't.

As in the days before his illness, he sped across the ground, vaulted over debris and fallen trees, and nearly forgot the reason he ran. He thrilled to the rush of blood and tightening of his lungs, the strength in his calves and thighs. The only thing missing was a decent pair of running shoes.

When a shout resounded through the trees, he glanced over his shoulder. A horse and rider bore down on him. He pumped his legs harder, but he was no match for the four-legged beast that drew so near he could hear its breath.

_Wake up!_ He silently called to where he lay sleeping. _Open your eyes!_ Though a thread of consciousness often allowed him to talk his way out of disturbing dreams, his pleas went unanswered. Thus, he veered right, seized a branch from the ground, and whirled around.

His pursuer reined in his horse, scattering leaves and dirt, and guided the animal sideways to look down at him. Clad in metal neck to toe – a jangling, clanking get-up that sounded with each quiver of his horse—he started at him out of eyes so blue he knew his imagination was in overdrive. Though his dream had neglected to place a helmet on his head, it had made sure there was a sword at his side.

_Only a dream. He can cut you in two and you'll awaken whole_. At least, as whole as a person with a death sentence hanging over his head…

"You do not need that," His voice was deep and accented, though of a more precise nature than the dying man who had mistaken him for his lord. "You have naught to fear from me."

Of course he didn't. He was only a figment, though where he had originated he had no idea. But with those cheekbones, shoulder-length blond hair, and stubble of a beard, he was like a belly-button-bearing model from a billboard he passed on his way to the university.

"Lord Pierre?"

He blinked, then nearly laughed at the realization he had dreamed himself into the mysterious Lord of Gilbert's book. What was the year? 1373? As for this behemoth, was he Francis Bonnefoy? He had to be. Forget that he was blonde rather than darkly sinister as he had imagined, that his eyes were blue, rather than the bottomless black. He was surely the one responsible for the carnage to which he had awakened, not to mention the death of his nephews and the disappearance of the king's serviceman – the same man he mistook him for.

He jabbed the branch at him in hopes it would send horse and rider back to wherever they had come from.

The animal rolled its huge eyes, reminding him of the one time he had ridden a horse, a mistake that culminated in his missing a barbed wire fence by inches.

"I am Lord Bonnefoy of Givryn Spire."

And beneath his armor he probably wore a medallion with a two-headed—what was it? Wyvern? "Stay back!"

"I am King Charles' man. Be assured, no harm will befall you."

He swung the branch. "I'll brain you!"

He frowned deeply, as if his words were foreign, as if Arthur's subconscious had not formed him from the pages of an old book. "After what you have seen, my lord, 'tis natural you would suffer hysterics."

"Oh, puh-lease!"

He lowered his gaze over him. "You are injured?"

No sooner did Arthur follow his gaze to his bloodied shoe and stocking than he lunged, seized hold of the branch, and used it to haul Arthur toward him.

Arthur let go, but not before Francis caught his arm. Handling him as if he were a child rather than a man who topped out at five foot eight, Francis lifted him off his feet and deposited him on his saddle between his thighs.

He reached for his face. Unlike his hair, he hadn't dreamed himself a long set of nails, and he fell short by the split second it took him to capture his wrist and grip it with the other.

"Calm yourself!"

He strained, kicked, bit—and got a mouthful of metal links that made his teeth peel with pain.

"Cease, else I shall bind you hand and foot!"

Before or after he killed him? He threw his head back and got a closer look at his version of Francis Bonnefoy. Not model material after all. As blue as his eyes were, his face was flawed. A scar split his left eyebrow, nose had a slight bend, and his jaw visible beneath his stubble was mildly pocked as if from adolescent acne or a childhood illness. Handsome? Definitely not. Rugged? Beyond. Deadly? Ever so.

Realizing his best hope was to catch him off guard, he forced himself to relax.

Francis gave a grunt of satisfaction, reached down and yanked at his pants.

Horrified that his dream was taking a more lurid turn, he renewed his struggle.

The horse snorted and danced around, but neither Arthur nor the skittish anima turned Francis from his intent. His large hand slid from his thigh to his knee.

It was then he felt the draft and realized that, somewhere between reality and dream, he had lost his underwear.

When his hand had his knee, he opened his mouth to scream, but just as quickly as the assault began, it ended. He thrust his pants back up and smiled—if that wicked twist of his lips could be called a smile. "Worry not, my lord, I place too high a value on my health to risk it with you."

What, exactly, did he mean? That he was promiscuous? Diseased? Of course, he did portray a king's serviceman…

"Whose blood if not yours?" Francis asked.

That was why he had touched him? He didn't know the man's name, only that he had rejected him as being a lord. He frowned. How was that? If he was Lord Pierre, why had one of the players in this dream not recognized him?

"Whose?" he growled.

He shifted around to fully face Francis. "What does it matter?"

His lids narrowed. "A soldier—nay, a dozen—bled their last to defend you. What does it matter who they were? Who their wives and children are?"

When he put it that way… But Arthur wasn't the villain, _he_ was. Those men were dead because he had ordered it. Or done it himself. "Put me down."

"What befell your escort?"

Why the pretense when he meant to kill him? Or did he? According to Gilbert's book, no trace of Lord Pierre was ever found. Had Francis allowed him to live—for a while, at least?

_It's a dream!_

Though he knew he was only smoke floating around his mind, he detested him for the sins of the man after whom he had fashioned him. "Why don't you tell _me_ what happened to my escort?" He was bold, and it felt good, so like his old self before this thing in his head pulled the life from under him.

Bonnefoy's face darkened. "You think I am responsible?"

"If the shoe fits…"

Confusion slipped through his anger. "What shoe?"

One would think he had truly hopped back in time. If this was anything like what Gilbert had experienced, no wonder he thought it was real. He only hoped that when he awakened he would remember the outlandish dream long enough to record it. "You don't want me at Griffin."

"_Givryn_, and, nay, I do not. But I assure you, had I wished you dead, we would not be having this conversation."

Nothing came between him and what he wanted, including his nephews. The deaths of those little boys had suffered incited Arthur further. "Just goes to show that if you want something done right, do it yourself."

He pulled him closer. "If you have anything else to say to me, my lord, you would do well to choose your words carefully."

His hands on him, thighs on either side of him, and breath on his face, were almost enough to make him believe he was real. _Only a figment. He holds no more power over you than the next dream._

"Do you understand?"

"What is there to understand?"

He stared at him, then released his arms and turned him forward. Before he could gulp down the view from atop the horse, he gripped an arm around his waist and spurred the animal through the trees. How much worse could it get? Though he tried to shut out the memories of his last horse ride, he remembered exactly how bad it could get. He squeezed his eyes closed. Where was Francis taking him? And if murder was on his mind, why the stay of execution? No one would hear if he cried out—

He wasn't alone. The thundering of hooves had surely been of many riders, meaning others could have seen his flight. Fortunate for him, unfortunate for Francis.

He opened his eyes. Trees sped by at breakneck blur, the forest floor rose and fell, shafts of sunlight blinded.

He retreated behind his lids again and was all the more aware of the hard body at his back and the muscled arm against his abdomen, the sensation so real he felt the beat of Francis's heart through his armor. He chalked it up to being a long time since he'd been in a man's arms, which was more his fault than his ex-boyfriend's. Alfred would have held him if he would have let him, but the relationship had coughed its last long before the onset of his illness. Arthur Jones was no more – not that they had ever married. At the urging of Alfred's mother, they had continued to postpone the ceremony for "professional purposes." In the end, it had worked out for the best. Or was it the worst?

Francis dragged his horse to a halt, and a grateful Arthur opened his eyes, only to wish he hadn't.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: I haven't put any authors notes in up until now but i figured it would probably be a good idea. Anyways, hello to all my readers, I hope you enjoy chapter three of Dreamspell, please please please leave a review and feel free to PM me with any questions over the story.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing**

**Chapter Three**

Francis had returned him to the gore, the smell of butchery. Add to that twenty armored men who moved among the dead, impervious to the horror, it should have awakened him in a cold sweat. Instead, the dream gripped him more fiercely.

One of the soldiers, a man who aspired to just over five feet, stepped from the others, but unlike Francis, he wore a white sleeveless shirt over his armor, the breast embroidered with a green shield dissected by a black cross. Perched on the shield was something like a dragon.

The man shook his head, "All dead, my lord."

Arthur searched out the one who had spoken of the medallion. He stared wide, but he had seen his last living day.

"Thieves?" Francis asked.

The soldier strained his neck to look up at him. "Twould appear so, my lord. The king's men have been stripped of armor and weaponry, their horses taken and, excepting a trunk beneath the wagon, all of Lord Pierre's belongings are gone."

"You have searched the attackers' bodies?"

"There are none to search, my lord. More, the ground is bloodied only where the king's men lie."

Arthur felt Francis' disbelief. He probably hadn't expected his hitmen to fare so well against the king's soldiers. How convenient for him.

"'Tis like nothing I have seen," the soldier said. "As if—"

"—they knew their attackers," Francis finished, then more gruffly, "Is that how 'twas, Lord Pierre?"

His charade was for the benefit of his men, but as much as he wanted to set the fools right, Arthur knew it was a battle best left for when Francis wasn't so near. He looked over his shoulder. "I don't recall."

His left eyebrow arched on either side of the scar, forming a sinister M. "Do you not?"

"I… hit my head." He rubbed a spot above his right ear.

"You were attacked?"

Arthur feigned offense. "You ask that with all this carnage?"

"I ask it when none but you survived."

It was strange, but this _was_ a dream. "My injury occurred when the wagon overturned." He pointed at it.

"You were in _that_ wagon?"

Apparently not. A carriage, then? He didn't see one, though that didn't mean there hadn't been a carriage prior to the attack. What about a horse? It seemed Lords in this age travelled on the beasts.

"Lord Pierre?"

He sighed. "Yes. That wagon."

"Regardless of what you are, have been, or nevermore will be to the king," Francis bit, "'tis difficult to believe Charles would have so little regard for the man he chose to care for my nephews that he sent him to Givry in a baggage wagon."

Arthur shrugged. "I'm not a horse person."

Francis' regard sharpened as if he saw Arthur Kirkland past Lord Pierre. Then, with one fluid move, he swung out of the saddle and dropped to the ground. Tall as a smoggy London day was long, he strode toward the wagon.

That was it? He was going to leave him astride an animal that surely sensed his fear? However, as much as he wanted to call Francis back and ask for help in dismounting, pride wouldn't allow it. Nor the possibility of escape.

He eyed the horse. Surely he need only nudge it with his heels? Though he hated the idea, he had nothing to lose but the fast-fading memory he would have upon awakening. He grabbed the saddle horn and prepared himself. He reached his feet to the stirrups. He was on the tall side, but Francis' legs outdistanced his. As he reached, those disgustingly ugly stockings tore down his leg.

The stirrups weren't necessary, were they? He lifted the reins and jabbed his heels into the horse's sides. Nothing. He snapped the reins, dug his heels deeper. The horse shifted its weight. He leaned forward. "Come on, big guy, show me how it's done."

The horse tossed its massive head and issued a snort suggestive of laughter.

"You are thinking of leaving?"

Arthur looked around and saw Francis approach at a leisurely pace indicative of confidence he placed in his trusty steed.

He halted alongside him. "He answers only to me."

Arthur straightened. "I had to try."

Francis lowered his gaze down to his bare leg, exposed by the torn fabric. "The king may enjoy suck brazen displays, Lord Pierre, but you are at Givry and such behavior will not be tolerated."

Arthur looked down his leg and did a double take, though not because of any sort of indecency. The pants that served so poorly during his flight from Francis were just like the ones illustrated in _The Sins of the Count of Givry._ So that was where his imagination had gone to outfit him…

"Cover yourself," Francis ordered.

He glanced at him, then looked down again. The stocking was beyond use, below a stretch of calf was visible. He was hardly brazen. Certainly not by twenty-first century standards. The prude! He reached down and tugged at the tear, but it was no use. There wasn't enough material to cover his legs.

He shrugged. "I tried."

Francis scowled and thrust something at him. "The collar of your coat, I presume."

Air trembled through the white material, sunlight ignited the red and blue jewels set in the gold wire band he called the collar. He didn't remember having lost it, but he did remember them in the image from the book. Arthur glanced at the soldier. His eyes were no longer open. Had Francis closed them?

"I am curious as to how the king's men came to be in possession of it," Francis said.

He took it. "I was trying to help a man," He tried, but failed to put the images of the encounter from his mind.

"Continue."

He pulled the cloth though his fingers. "He must have pulled it off."

"For what purpose?"

He draped the collar over his chest and tried to tuck it into his shirt.

Francis' lids narrowed again. "Clearly, you are unaccustomed to such manner of dress, my lord. Tell me of your servant."

Lord Pierre had one?

"Surely you did not set from Paris without one."

"I…yes, I had one."

"Where is he?"

Arthur looked past Francis, but searched no further than the nearest fallen soldier, a man far from whole. He swept his gaze back to blue.

"Thirteen lie dead," Francis said, "but none amongst them is a servant. What befell him?"

"I must not have brought him with me after all."

His teeth snapped. "You wish me to believe the king not only set you upon the road in a wagon, but did not have a servant accompany you?"

Francis thought him fake or a liar – or disoriented. Falling back on his feigned injury, he touched his head. "I'm not thinking straight right now."

Clouds stormed those blue eyes. "You fear the wrong one."

So he thought he played dumb because of his distrust of him. That would work. "_Do _I?"

A humorless rumble rose from him. "You think you have no enemies, Lord Pierre? A man who tried to displace the grasping Natalia Arlovskaya?"

Though Gilbert's book had speculated that the king's favored mistress might have been responsible for Lord Pierre being sent from court, there the speculation ended. Had this Arlovskaya woman taken it a step further? A possibility, but Arthur thought it was more likely Francis' attempt to throw him off his scent.

"How convenient you were in the neighborhood and able to come to my aid so quickly," He hazarded.

With what sounded like an obscenity, though he had never heard the word, Francis caught his wrist. "Neither I, nor my men, were near when this happened. A villager brought tale of the attack to Givryn Spire."

As Arthur looked into his anger, he had the feeling it cost him dearly to defend himself. Odd he should feel the need to do so with a man for whom he had low regard. Of course, Lord Pierre was the king's serviceman. He wouldn't want Charles gunning him.

Francis released him and put a foot in a stirrup. Like rain on a metal rough, his armor rang against the quiet of the forest as he swung up behind him.

Arthur clamped his thighs against the horse as Francis put an arm on either side of him, took the reins, and guided his horse to where his men gathered near the wagon.

Arthur was disturbed by the looks that came his way, from surprise to lewd appreciation to affront.

"Sir George," Francis called.

The man stepped forward. "My lord?"

"Divide your men and search the demesne. I want the murdering thieves found."

Tempted to tell the man to look no further than his lord, Arthur bit his tongue.

"After I have delivered the lord to Givryn, I will return with more men."

How stilted Francis' speech sounded. A few contractions here and there would go a long way to remedying the problem.

As Sir George returned to his men, Arthur was surprised to discover that none of them was any more familiar than Francis. Odd. Where had he seen these faces that he would unknowingly store them in his memory? And what about their voices? Though, on occasion, he had been around French accents, these weren't quite the same.

Gilbert had said he didn't know the people in his dreams. Though Arthur hadn't achieved his level of sleep deprivation, he guessed this was analogous to what he had experienced.

_Oh please, let me remember just one tenth of this when I wake!_ Unfortunately, the likelihood of doing so was hampered by the fact he hadn't hooked up to the EEG. If he had, the alarm rigged to wake him following REM sleep would have facilitated his recall. Now he was dependent on luck.

"Gain your mount, Squire Jacques." Francis called.

Arthur saw a young man hasten from the gathering and swing into his saddle. He also wore a sleeveless shirt, but it bore a beast that was half-eagle, half-lion. Why two different coat of arms? Did the eagle-lion belong to Francis, the dragon to his deceased brother?

Francis guided his horse through the maze of dead and, once clear, fastened an arm around Arthur and let the animal run.

Arthur watched as they passed from forest to open meadow. To the edge in the distance, lush vegetation filled the eye and was capped by skies so blue that the cirrus streaking it could not dampen its radiance. Blankets of wildflowers undulated color amid greater green, towering trees stood sentinel over the bordering forest, sheep dotted a hill like a thousand tiny clouds come to ground. And the scent? Like a hundred countryside mornings rolled into one. How incredibly removed it was from the glass, concrete, and metal that sprouted from London, the smog that burned his eyes. But nothing prepared him for the fairy tale edifice that jagged the sky. Gait by gait, its white walls grew to immense proportions, beat by beat, its spires sharpened. Givryn Spire.

Built on a hill, the castle stood guard over a walled city jutting to thee left. Black on green flags flapped from spires, sunlight on armor flashed silver atop the walls, and from the center of the castle arose a building with towers in each corner. Although the structure should have appeared out of place against the pristine countryside, it seemed as much a part of the scenery as the grass and trees. Storybook perfect – except for two little boys murdered within those walls.

Arthur pondered the man who held him. How could he order the deaths of innocent children? It was evil. To have lived during the Middle Ages must have been to live a nightmare. He couldn't imagine—

Couldn't he? This _was_ a dream, every crumb fallen from things and people forgotten in some deep crack in his memory.

As Francis guided his horse onto a forty-foot span of a bridge raised above a rushing river, Arthur remembered the young man who had trailed them throughout the ride, and only because of the clatter of hooves that joined theirs.

A soldier was at the far end of the bridge, motionless until they were nearly upon him. His gaze on Francis, he said with a deferential nod, "All is quiet, my Lord."

With a spur of heels, Francis guided the horse onto the beaten path that wended upward to the castle. Shortly, they crossed another bridge over what Arthur guessed was a moat. That was where the fairy tale took a sharp turn off the page. Who knew what pestilence the fetid muck harbored?

Shouts drew his regard overhead. Several men leaned out of recesses in the upper wall and called greetings to Francis, welcoming his return as if he had been gone days rather than hours. In silence, he directed his horse beneath the arched entrance and through a shaft outfitted with not one but three sets of doors three times the height of a man and bounded by soldiers.

If the rest of the castle was as well-manned, no one came or went unchecked. That included Arthur. Though all were quick to give Francis their attention, they stole furtive glances at Arthur. Did they know of the attack on Lord Pierre's entourage? Was that behind their interest? Or was it his appearance? The blood on his shoe up to his pants, and the tear that revealed a bit of his leg?

A clamor reached Arthur in advance of their exit from the shaft, but he was unprepared for the flurry of activity in the courtyard they entered. People dressed in the clothes of common folk were everywhere, along with dogs, horses, wagons, contraptions – one that looked like an enormous grinding wheel. From the far left came the sound of metal being struck. To the right, a glowing fire radiated enough heat to work up a sweat.

Arthur could hardly believe the depth of imagination that had concocted such a fabulous dream, especially considering his limited knowledge of history.

There were more shouted greetings, nods, gap-toothed smiles, arms raised in recognition of the man who plotted a heinous act to assure his ascendancy to count. Although Arthur couldn't imagine these people cared for Francis, he certainly had their respect – likely through fear.

Francis ushered his horse beneath a portal and into another courtyard. It also teemed with laborers. In one corner, women bent over immense barrels, some stirring, others scrubbing on what looked like washboards. Opposite, teenage girls hung strips of red cloth from a clothesline stretched overhead. In the middle of the courtyard stood a small building open on one side, the man inside working amid rows of candles.

"M'lord, m'lord!" A smudge-faced, wild-haired boy bounded into Francis' path.

He jerked the reins and Arthur wondered what harsh words the man would speak.

"Tell the tale, m'lord," the boy implored with lit blue eyes. "How many did ye kill?"

_Oh, about a dozen_.

To his surprise, Francis leaned down and ruffled the child's fair hair. "None yet, Jeremy."

Disappointment shrunk the boy's brow, reminding him of someone. Finally Arthur had placed the person in his dream—sort of. Jeremy was familiar, but he didn't know where he had seen him.

"Not even one, m'lord?"

"There were none to kill."

Jeremy propped his hands on his hips. "Ye'll not let the brigands go, will ye?"

"You know I will not."

With a grin that revealed he was short a front tooth, the boy turned his gaze on Arthur. "Who is that, m'lord?"

"'Tis Lord Pierre come to take care of Abel and Philippe."

With wide eyes and a mouth to match, Jeremy said, "M'lord is most fair. Not at all what Abel and Philippe feared."

Arthur had to smile. Not since before his illness had he received such a sincere compliment.

"Have ye something for me, m'lord?"

Francis tossed a coin to him, and the boy snatched it from the air with a greasy fist. Hooting with joy, he spun and disappeared among the many.

"Your new home," Francis said, "Givryn Spire."

Arthur looked up at the building at the center of the castle. Though impossible to overlook, that was what he had done, engrossed as he was with the activity before the grandiose structure. Six stories high, as many wide, its top edge notched all around, it gave new meaning to his notion of how a castle should look.

"It's…" He shook his head. "…big."

"You expected less?"

He looked around. "Actually I hadn't thought much about it."

"Then you ought to. The Counthood of Givry is vital to France—strategically located, fertile, and among the wealthiest."

_And aren't you just dying to get your hands on it? _"I'll keep that in mind."

Francis urged his horse forward and reined in before a long flight of steps that led up to what he assumed was the entrance. He dismounted and passed the reins to Squire Jacques who waited for him. "I will be gone but a few minutes. See that my horse is watered and ready to ride when I return."

"Aye, my lord."

My lord this, my lord that. Was it really necessary?

"Lord Pierre?" Francis raised an eyebrow.

Arthur looked down. He had forgotten just how tall horses were… and he had to get down somehow. He frowned and continued to stare at the dirt, trying to muster up the courage to get down.

Francis sighed. "Come." He raised his arms.

Tempted as he was to refuse his help, Arthur leaned toward him. His great hands gripped his waist and lifted him down. No sooner did his feet touch the ground than he released him and turned toward the steps.

He probably feared he would catch something from Arthur as earlier alluded. Trying not to feel the warm imprint of his hands, he tugged at the tight pants and followed him. Dozens of steep steps later, he caught up with him at the top landing. Feeling deep appreciation for whoever had invented the elevator, he looked to Francis and found him studying him as if he were a one-thousand piece puzzle he must put together without a picture to guide him.

"A moment," he said and lifted the collar from his chest. He adjusted the fabric that hung longer on one side and resettled the gems.

"Thank you," Arthur murmured.

He looked like he might smile. "So you do know something of propriety." Before he could concoct a comeback, he turned his back on him. "Come, my mother will wish to receive you."

Had Gil's book mentioned Francis' mother? If so, either the reference was obscure or Arthur had been too tired to store the information.

The two soldiers who stood guard at the massive doors offered the usual "My lord," gave Arthur the once-over, and pulled the doors open.

Inside, Francis allowed him only a cursory examination of his surroundings before he struck out across the stone floor—not that more was needed. The entrance hall was stark, nothing extraordinary about it. So what had happened to the run of imagination that had brought him this far?

"Brother!" someone called. Descending a stairway was a man whose resemblance to the one he called 'brother" seemed limited to their build. Younger than Francis by five or so years, his features were more handsome, eyes darker, and when he stepped off the stairs he saw he was shorter by several inches. "What news do you bring?"

"They are all dead, except Lord Pierre." Francis stepped to the side to reveal Arthur.

Surprise shot across the man's face. "Lord Pierre?" His gaze traveled down him, but when it returned to his face he regained his composure.

"Lord Pierre," Francis said, "my brother, Antonio Carriedo, Baron of Kinsey."

Before Arthur could respond, Antonio demanded, "What of the attackers?"

"Gone." Francis began to ascend the stairs.

Antonio looked to Arthur again, allowed him a glimpse of what might pass as dislike, then motioned him to precede him.

_Don't take it personally. It's just the stuff in dreams._ He stepped forward. This stairway was less imposing than the first, and he soon found himself in a room so immense, so fabulously furnished, and so alive with the people of this era that he halted.

Brightly painted pillars supported an arched ceiling splashed with vibrant green, black, and gold. Tapestries around the walls depicted lovers in a garden, battling knights, and a dragon perched on a shield like those on the shirts worn by Givry's men. A fireplace the size of his spare bedroom was fueled by enormous logs. And the men and women, with their aristocratic deportment and splendid costumes—the men in shirts over hose and pointed shoes—looked as if they had walked off a movie set. But what was hay doing on the floor? Were they expecting cows?

An older woman wearing an ivory dress with sleeves that fell from her wrists to her calves, appeared in a fog of perfume that made Arthur wince. "Lord Pierre?" Her voice was so melodious it could have been an instrument.

This had to be Francis' mother. She was petite, but there was no mistaking the resemblance, from the blonde hair encased in strange wire cylinders on either side of her head to intense blue eyes to soaring cheekbones.

Arthur stuck out a hand. "Yes, I'm Lord Pierre."

As if a handshake was beneath her, the woman frowned.

Remembering another time, another place, another woman who had made him feel ten inches tall, Arthur stole a glance at Francis where he stood beside his mother. His expression was all the confirmation needed that a handshake was not how things were done here.

He lowered his arm. If they hadn't shook hands back then—now—how had they greeted one another?

"I am Lady Aveline, Lord Bonnefoy's mother."

"A pleasure to meet you."

Another frown, then a sniff as she noticed Arthur's blooded clothes. "My son has assured me you are uninjured."

"I was fortunate."

Something flashed in the woman's eyes that gave Arthur's memory a painful stir. His almost-mother-in-law, Celia Jones, hadn't liked him either. But then, the woman's careful plans for her debutante-destined son had been ruined when he stepped out of his "class" by dating Arthur.

"I am sure King Charles will be relieved to learn of your well-being," Celia's fourteenth-century counterpart said.

Arthur nodded. "Yes, he will."

Francis' mother waved someone forward, and a woman rose from a chair before the fire. Though her dress was less fine than Lady Aveline's, her sleeves also trailed. "This is my daughter, Marion."

Unlike her mother, the thirty-fiveish Marion was no little thing. Though she wasn't tall by twenty-first century standards, she topped her mother by half a foot and carried ten to fifteen pounds more on her big-boned frame than insurance companies liked. Eyes blackest brown, hair straight and dishwater blonde beneath a veil, mouth wide, she was as different from Lady Aveline as summer was from winter. Not homely, but plain. From her posture to the color staining her cheeks, she appeared to lack her mother's self-possession.

Marion inclined her head. "Lord Pierre."

"Lady Marion." Had he got that right?

"My daughter will show you to your chamber where you can bathe and rest," Lady Aveline said.

Happy to put distance between himself and Francis, Arthur followed the woman. Although the others in the room resumed their conversations, he remained an object of interest. Not until he was before a winding stair did it occur to him something was missing. He spun around, scattering hay, and saw that Francis strode opposite his brother.

"Mr. Bonnefoy, what about…" What were their names? "…Abel and Peter?

He turned. "Abel and _Philippe_."

Right. When do I get to meet the boys?"

"Later." He resumed his course.

"Come, Lord Pierre," Marion beckoned.

Arthur tugged at his pants and climbed the stairs. Up and around they went, to a stone-laid corridor.

"You have been given the east tower room," Marion said as she led the way forward, a spring in her step that had not been there before. At the end of the corridor, he pushed a door inward and stepped aside to allow Arthur to precede her.

The furnishings consisted of a bed, a stool, a small table with a bowl and pitcher, a raised iron pot that looked like a small barbecue, and a lit candle. Arthur chuckled. He had dreamed himself into a place over which any self-respecting twenty-first century inmate would have filed a law suit.

"Is there anything you require, Lord Pierre?"

A bath? He searched the room again and noticed a narrow door that had to be the bathroom. He opened it. The room measured three by three feet and was bare except for a ledge against the back wall. And in the center of that ledge was a hole. An indoor outhouse. Wrinkling his nose at the odor, he closed the door.

"Something is amiss, my lord?"

Arthur looked to the woman in the doorway. "I was hoping for a bath."

Marion frowned "I directed the servants in the preparation of your chamber. All should be in readiness." She crossed to the table and dipped a finger in the pitcher. "The water is still warm." She poured some into the bowl. "And here is your towel."

A bowl of tepid water and a hand towel was her idea of a bath? Hoping he didn't sound ungrateful, Arthur said, "I was thinking of a long soak."

"In a tub?"

"You have one, don't you?"

"Two, in fact." That last was spoken with pride. "Unfortunately, all of the fires in the kitchen are taken with preparations for the nooning meal, so 'tis not possible to warm water for a bath."

No plumbing. Arthur sighed. "Of course."

"I will leave you to your ablutions." At the door, Marion turned back. "I hope we shall be friends."

Her words seemed so genuine Arthur smiled. "So do I."

A grin brightened Marion's face. "Then we shall."

Obviously, this Marion and the one he had first met were not the same.

"Mayhap you will share with me tales of your life at court."

Never before out of the twenty-first century Arthur Kirkland? Whose only experience with 'life at court' was two hours spent in traffic court last summer? "I'd love to." Chances were he would be long awakened from this dream before he had to make good on that.

"Rest well, my lord." Marion stepped into the corridor and pulled the door closed.

Arthur crossed to the left of the bed and opened the single shutter. A shaft of light slanted across the floor, lighting the dust motes and the stain on his clothes. Though he didn't have clothes to change into, he decided the clothes below would suffice. The stockings he wore were so thick they could be pants themselves, and the rip was only a minor thing.

He quickly vacated the golden embroidered coat. Surprisingly, the shirt beneath was embroidered around the neck, had long sleeves, and was made of what felt like silk.

Arthur slipped out of the boots on his feet. As he washed the blood from the leather, he pondered the boys. "Later," Francis had said. Could he do that? Or, as the king had appointed Lord Pierre to care for them, could he demand to see them immediately? Of course, it wasn't as if the boys were without a protector. They had Sir Gilbert Beilschmidt. For a moment, he wondered if he bore any resemblance to Gil. Ridiculous—unless his subconscious decided to cast Gilbert in the role he had tried to convince him was his.

Arthur raked his fingers through his hair. Funny, only now that he had it back did he appreciate what he had taken too long for granted. Day in, day out, he had confined his hair beneath hats and silently threatened to whack it off each time his bangs fell into his eyes. Leave it to cancer to take care of the problem…

Arthur let his hair slip through his fingers. No wonder Gilbert had wanted to believe his dreams were real. If he were just a bit mad, he might himself.

He lay down on the bed and, certain he would awaken on his living room floor, mumbled, "Good riddance, Mr. Bonnefoy."


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

No man he had ever known was worth dying for. Yet thirteen men had given their lives to protect this one—the king's leman.

A lovely leman, Francis admitted as candlelight danced through light hair and skipped across a face rendered innocent in sleep. Though he knew he should not, he pushed the door wider. The movement made the links of his hauberk ring, but Lord Pierre did not awaken. Gaining a full view of where he lay on the bed, Francis slid his gaze to his throat, then over the thin material of his shirt.

He clenched his hands in an attempt to turn back the attraction he had first felt when he had carried him before him on his horse. The effort was in vain, for the sight of him, looking as if he had fallen asleep awaiting a lover, stirred him to discomfort.

One could hardly fault Charles for taking him to service, for he was beyond lovely, and without aid. And his scent… No perfume assailed him when he breathed him during the ride to Givryn. He had smelled of light and air—

He berated himself for such fanciful thoughts, Francis Bonnefoy, Baron of Trune, protector of Givry, was not fanciful—though once he had been. He lifted a hand to knock as he had earlier done, but Pierre murmured and turned fully toward him, causing his shirt to rise.

What Francis' hand had known his eyes quickly learned—muscled stomach and firm thighs under the fabric of his stockings. It was as if Pierre's days were not spent in the luxuries of court, but on the training field. Not possible, but he _had_ seen him run. Never had he known a man to move as he did, and while wearing clothes not fit for such movement. Such strength and stamina were not acquired running around a king's bedchamber.

He considered the dwindling candle and reflected deeper on this man thrust into his life by an aging king determined to upset his vassal's ordered life – first with the appointment of Sir Gilbert Beilschmidt, now this man. Why had Charles done it? It was something Francis had questioned a dozen times since receiving word of Lord Pierre's impending arrival. How many nursemaids did two children require?

Of course, if he was honest, the boys had been adrift until the coming of Sir Gilbert. Following the death of Francis's half-brother, the count, it had been necessary to discharge the woman who had cared for Abel and Phillipe since birth. For two months, Francis had disregarded the woman's impertinence and reports of her speculation over his role in his brother's death, but when he had come upon her warning the boys against him, his forbearance had shattered.

Determining his mother should care for the boys, he had sent to Trune for Aveline, but they were not her grandchildren and she had been unable to hide her disdain. As for Marion, in her uncertain state she was unfit for such responsibility, though she did spend much of her day in their company. However, he had but to advance the possibility of wedding his sister away and she deteriorated more rapidly than a rose in frost. He oft wondered about that.

With none to properly care for the boys, the king had twice taken it upon himself to ensure Givry's heir was cared for. But why _this_ man? Though surely apt at putting a man to bed, it was far different from tucking children in at night and soothing away their worries and fears. It must be as it was said: Charles simply used the opportunity to rid himself of Pierre. But what had wearied him? His peculiar behavior? His forward disposition? His sharp tongue? Surely not those legs.

Stirred again, Francis forced himself to recognize another reason Charles might have sent him. No, the king would not presume so far. Lord Pierre was stained, and not even Charles could make him clean again. Still, if he came to him, and he might now that his bed was cold, could he send him away?

He cursed. If he was as free with other men as he had been with Charles, he was likely diseased. If not, there was the matter of his refusal to tell him what had befallen his escort, his claim to a head injury of which he saw no evidence, and his allusion to him being responsible for the attack.

Regardless, this was not the place to question a man like him. Francis turned away.

"Alfred?"

He looked around and saw he spoke out of his sleep. Was Alfred another lover?

"Too late…" He breathed.

For what?

* * *

Was it light? A scent? A sound? The chill in the air? Whatever it was, it woke Arthur. He lifted his lids and caught his breath at the sight of the man who filled the shadowed doorway head to toe, shoulder to shoulder.

He was still in the fourteenth century of a dream that had turned night, and no amount of shadow could disguise his visitor. It was Francis, and he doubted he was here to ask whether the accommodations were to his liking.

In the flickering light of the candle, he sat up. In spite of the chill from the open window, he resisted the temptation to drag the blanket from the bed over his legs. After all, as the king's serviceman he had a reputation to live up to. And it wasn't as if he didn't show more skin on a daily basis back home.

He tucked his feet under him. "What do you want?"

He stepped into the light. Still wearing armor, the small room magnified his size, making him appear even more a behemoth. "'Tis time we spoke." Metal on metal, he strode to the window and closed the shutter.

"About?"

His gaze lingered on his legs. "Has no one ever told you, Lord Pierre, that which is kept hidden is more intriguing?"

If he understood him to mean it was better to leave something to the imagination, it would be Arthur's mother who had told him that. Arthur curled his fingers into his palms. "What do you want to speak to me about?"

Though clearly displeased by his disregard for his suggestion that he should cover himself, he said, "Your attackers have gone from Givry as if they never were. If I am to run them to ground, I need to know what befell your escort."

He supposed he did have to expend some effort to throw suspicion off himself. "You think that whatever I saw may be of use in apprehending the… murderers."

"Perhaps."

He touched his left temple. "I'm afraid I still don't recall—my head injury, you know."

His lids narrowed. "It has spread to that side, my lord?"

Caught. Not that he had believed him the first go around. "Hmm. It seems so."

Francis' hands clenched. Would he keep them to himself?

A scuffling arose in the corridor.

Francis snatched up the cover and whipped it over Arthur's legs and chest. "Due modesty, my lord, lest my men take your wantonness for an invitation."

Wantonness? He, who had been a virgin until the age of twenty when he met Alfred, the man he had later planned to marry?

Two soldiers appeared in the doorway, a trunk between them, "My lord," they spoke in unison.

Francis motioned them inside. "There."

Eyes averted, they set the trunk at the foot of the bed. As suddenly as they had appeared, they disappeared, leaving Arthur alone with a man he would have feared if he were real.

"When you _do_ recall what happened," he said, "I trust you will come to me."

"_If_ I recall," He sighed. "I suppose this means the end of your search?"

A muscle in his jaw jumped. "Half my men are still out there. At first light. I will lead a second contingent to the eastern border."

Arthur frowned. "Why did you come back?"

"I answer to no one, Lord Pierre, but for you I shall make an exception. As I told you, Givry is vital to France. Thus, until Abel comes of age, _I_ am lord and responsible for the demesne and its people. What happened today is serious, but I will not leave Givryn Spire too long to avenge men whose lives are already forfeit."

End of story, and so convincingly told that if he didn't know better, he might believe him.

"Now clothe yourself." He pivoted. "My mother will expect you at table for supper."

"How am I supposed to do that when my clothes are bloodied?"

When he came back around, his left eyebrow once more formed an M. "The trunk would be a good place to start."

He looked to the end of the bed. This must be the trunk that had been trapped beneath the wagon. He tossed the cover back, swung his feet to the floor, and padded to it. "Lord Pierre's?"

Silence. Had he gone? He looked around and met his suspicious gaze.

"You speak of yourself as if you are not present. _Lord Pierre."_ He leaned a shoulder against the door frame. "Why is that?"

_Because he is not present, and I am having a hard time keeping his hat on._ But he couldn't tell him that. Or could he? How would this man in his dreams react? What words would his subconscious put in his mouth? Tempted as he was to find out, he didn't dare.

Hadn't Gilbert's book said no one knew where Lord Pierre came from? And his surname, age, and social standing were as much a mystery. "Hardly a world traveler are you, Mr. Bonnefoy?" Arthur said with renewed confidence. "Where I come from, one often uses the formal to refer to one's self."

Disbelief. "Where is it you come from, Lord Pierre? Not France, I wager."

"You are right."

"Perhaps England with an accent such as yours." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Where?" He pressed.

"That is between the king and me."

His gaze held his long and hard, then he straightened and strode down the corridor.

Obviously, the king was a good card to play with Francis. Come to think of it…

He ran to the door. "Mr. Bonnefoy, I will expect your nephews at supper."

Francis turned, retraced his footsteps, and set his six foot three of bone muscle over him. "Will you?"

"They _are_ the reason King Charles sent me."

"As I heard tale, you were sent that he might rid himself of a tedious serviceman."

Arthur raised his chin. "My relationship with _Charles_ is none of your business. Suffice to say that I am here to carry out his orders that I care for your nephews."

"And how do you intend to do that? By exposing yourself?" He caught the neck of his shirt and pulled him forward. "By going about wearing naught but your undershirt? Tempting my men?"

Though Arthur reminded himself this was only a dream, there was nothing dream-like about Francis—the condemnation in his eyes, the masculine scent of his sweat, the prickling sensation where his rough fingers brushed his throat, the body heat radiating across the space between him.

He cleared his throat. "It seems to me, Mr. Bonnefoy, that it would be less than honorable for your men to be tempted by another man. I assure you, no harm will come to Abel and Philippe while they are in my care. Can you say as much?" The last slipped out. How a dream could rub him so wrong, he didn't know, but this one—this man—did.

Francis reeled him in until they were nose to nose. "I was wrong. You _should_ fear me, Lord Pierre."

As much as he tried to convince himself his fear was unfounded, it was all he could do not to put it out there for him to see. "Let me go."

He released him.

"The king will hear of this, Mr. Bonnefoy."

"I am _Lord_ Bonnefoy. See that you afford me my title in the future." Once again, he strode opposite.

Arthur glared at his back. He would never be _his_ lord. If he didn't like "Mr." he had some choice alternatives.

When he entered a room halfway down the corridor, he grimaced at the realization it was likely his bedroom. He closed the door and returned to the trunk. Kneeling, he lifted the heavy lid. Inside were two coats made from bright cloth along with matching hose, a long tunic, a pair of thin-soled pointed shoes, another pair of stockings, two belts, a device he wasn't sure of, a collar, and a comb.

Arthur chose the Emerald green coat over the red. It was much less decorated than the embroidered one from earlier, and seemed to fit more like a shirt. Though he wasn't sure how he was to manage the row of buttons running the sleeves from elbow to wrist. He eyed the red coat. It didn't have buttons, just normal sleeves, but it was garishly decorated.

Arthur pulled off the shirt he'd been wearing and reached for the clean tunic in the trunk, and froze. He couldn't see his ribs through his skin. The weight loss had robbed him of his athletic body to the point he could barely run down the street without feeling as if he were going to fall over, yet here he was. He was whole again. No headaches, no illness, everything the way it had been. He could get used to this.

But that was the trap Gilbert had fallen into. If he wasn't careful, _he_ would end up marked for the loony bin. Not that his sentence would be lengthy…

Arthur pulled the shirt on, followed by the green coat, and discovered the buttons were the least of his worries. The coat didn't fit. The sleeves were short by an inch, the hem hit above his waist in contrast to the normal length worn by the other men, and even if he didn't button those sleeves it would be snug.

What to do? By twenty-first century standards, the shirt beneath could pass, but from Francis' reaction, it was inappropriate. He held the red coat against him. Same size. The green would have to do. He buttoned up the sleeves as far as he could and pulled out the device from the trunk. It had buckles near the front and what seemed to be leg holes. Some kind of under garment? He tried to pull it on, finding it squeezed his hip bones rather painfully. He tossed it aside and just put on the hose. Since the shoes were too small, he pulled on the boots again, now cleaned from the blood that coated them earlier. Lastly, he attempted to smooth out his hair. And despite the mess it was, it was a joy.

* * *

The draft alerted him, its chill pricking his bare feet and legs. Francis dropped the hose he had been in the process of donning and pulled his misericorde from the belt that lay on the bed. The dagger's blade reflecting torchlight, he pivoted, swept the tapestry aside, and fell on the intruder.

The man cried out, but not until the misericorde was at his neck did Francis realize it was Marion.

"God's patience!" He lowered the dagger. "For what are you skulking about my chamber?"

Though it was dim behind the tapestry, torchlight slipped in and curved around the hand she held to her throat. "Remind me not to steal upon you ever again, brother."

He looked to the door through which she had entered the solar. Behind it and a dozen more lay the passages that ran the inner walls of the keep. It was years since he had negotiated them himself, and usually it had been with Marion close behind.

"If I must remind you not to steal upon me again, you will deserve what ill befalls you."

She scowled. "I do so miss the boy."

The boy he had been and would never be again. Their days of mischief, games, and shared imaginings were long over. He thrust the tapestry back, tossed the misericorde on the bed, and returned to his hose.

"My!" Marion feigned shock. "Had I known you were without dress, I would not have entered your chamber."

She made it sound as if he was nude when he had but to don hose and boots. He rolled the left hose up his leg.

She lowered to the edge of the bed. "Did you think I was Cardell?"

Cardell who would prefer him dead. "In such circumstances, Marion, one does not think, One acts. He tied the top of the hose to the braie girdle beneath his tunic. "But had you been him, you would be no more." As he pulled on the opposite hose, he rued the responsibility bequeathed to him by the death of his half-brother—especially the dissension that had risen from it.

"The people like you," Marion slipped into his thoughts as she was still able to do, "as do several of the barons."

But not Cardell and half a dozen others. Francis jerked his above-knee tunic down over his hose. "What do you want?"

She rose and crossed to the trunk, removed a jeweled belt and shoes, and held them out to him.

Francis turned away. His sword belt would better serve, as would boots. He slid the misericorde in the sheath, girded the belt, and dropped the lid on the trunk. Seating himself, he reached for his short boots.

Marion lowered beside him. "I am wondering what you think of Lord Pierre."

He shoved his feet into the boots. "He is the reason for your trespass?"

"One of the reasons. What do you think of him?"

"Naught."

"I think he is lovely."

"You expected the king's leman to be otherwise?"

"Marion leaned back on his hands and gazed at the ceiling as if it were a canopy of stars. "Do you remember when, as children, we dreamed of the one we would one day wed—all the while mother and father spat at one another?" She turned her gaze to him. "We were going to be different."

"They were dreams, Marion. Never meant to be."

"Perhaps."

He stood. "Supper awaits."

She eyed him. "You would make a fine husband, Francis."

Unfortunately, he could not say she would make a fine wife. "When you are wed, dear Marion, mayhap I shall get me an heir." In which case it might never happen.

The sister he knew disappeared from her eyes and was replaced by one he preferred not to know—someone whose mind had twisted long ago.

Casting her emptied gaze down, hands beginning to tremble, she muttered, "Aye, supper awaits."

An ache in his chest, Francis slid a hand beneath her elbow and raised her to her feet. "Come."


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: So I've decided to help out some with the words of the fourteenth century. If you see a star by a word, I have put the meaning of it down at the bottom. Please enjoy Chapter Five of Dreamspell.**

**Disclaimer: I still own nothing, and will not for this entire story**

**Chapter Five**

Arthur stepped up the torch-lit stairs and into a room he hardly recognized. Had he taken a wrong turn? He remembered the tapestries, the painted ceiling, and the fireplace. It was the place Francis had brought him through earlier, but transformed by tables, benches, servants bearing platters of food, a multitude of people who had not been present upon his arrival, and a clamor that was almost deafening—until a hush fell.

Heads turned and eyes widened. Did he look _that_ bad? There hadn't been a mirror.

Although he longed to head back upstairs, he determined he would face these people and their disapproval, and do it with style—hopefully. Sensing Francis' gaze, he looked past two rows of tables to a table raised above the others. He sat at its center, as if in judgment of him, and beside him was his brother.

He put his shoulders back and walked forward. There were whispers, snickers, snide comments, a lewd grunt, but he didn't falter.

Nearing Francis, he noted he had changed into a black shirt embroidered around the neck and his unruly hair was secured at the nape. He cleaned up well, appearing less sinister than he had in armor. Until he looked into his eyes. His silent regard was all the warning he needed that he would extract payment for whatever sin Arthur had committed. Let him try.

He stopped before him. "Where would you like me to sit?" When he didn't speak, Marion said, "Beside me, Lord Pierre."

Since the woman was three places removed from her brother, one from her disagreeable mother, Arthur said, "Thank you." He stepped onto the raised platform, skirted the table, and lowered to the bench.

Marion turned to him. "Were you able to rest?"

"Yes I got some sleep."

"Splendid." Marion lifted a metal goblet and sipped.

Realizing how thirsty he was, Arthur looked to the table. No goblet, but the good news was that interest in him was waning.

"How was your bath?" Marion asked.

"It was… different."

"I imagine at court you had the luxury of a tub bath once a sennight*. I enjoy them myself, but I am able to indulge only once a fortnight*."

However long that was, it didn't sound good.

Lady Aveline leaned forward, stirring the air with perfume, the abundance of which probably had something to do with bathing being a luxury. "For all the horrors you endured this day, you appear to have fared well, Lord Pierre."

Arthur wondered how to respond. Though he didn't think he would ever forget the terrible images, it could be nothing compared to what the real Lord Pierre must have endured. "I was fortunate." Lame.

"Lord Pierre sustained a head injury, Mother." Francis netted Arthur's gaze. "He is unable to recall the incident."

"Is that so?" Lady Aveline mused.

"How terrible," Marion murmured.

Antonio Carriedo merely shined his dislike on Arthur.

A server appeared. Cheeks pink from exertion, the woman set a goblet in front of Arthur and poured a dark liquid into it.

Wine? Though, on occasion, Arthur enjoyed a glass of wine, water was his poison. "Excuse me, can I get a glass of water?"

Surprise came at him from all sides, though it was most prominent on the servant's face. "Water, m'lord?"

"From the tap is fine."

The woman's confusion deepened. "But…"

"Surely you jest, Lord Pierre," Marion said. "Everyone knows water is an evil drink."

Now Arthur was confused—until he recalled the advice for travelling in third world countries. Water must not be safe in medieval France either. He smiled at the server. "Milk?"

Still the woman looked disconcerted. "I shall fetch some, m'lord." She hurried away.

Lady Aveline harrumphed. "Even Abel and Philippe choose wine over milk."

Children drank wine?

"Where _are_ Abel and Philippe?" Francis asked.

"'Tis likely Sir Gilbert again." Lady Aveline grumbled.

"Squire Jacques!" Francis called.

The young man rose from a lower table. "My lord?"

"Collect my nephews and bring them and Sir Gilbert to the hall."

"Aye, my lord."

Marion leaned near Arthur. "They hate each other."

"They" being Francis and Gilbert Beilschmidt. Pretending ignorance, Arthur asked, "Why?"

Before Marion could answer, a plate was set between her and her mother, on it a large scooped out round of bread filled with what looked like stew. Marion picked up a spoon and took a bite. As did her mother.

They were not the only ones to share a meal, a practice that was hardly hygienic. But when a plate was set between Arthur and the heavy man beside him and he realized he was to be his partner, he was too hungry to object.

"For some reason," Marion finally said, "Sir Gilbert believes my brother plans to out the heir that he might take the Counthood for himself. Try though I do to convince him he is wrong, he refuses to believe me."

If only she knew. Arthur looked to his shared meal. Seeing the man was halfway through it, he snagged a spoonful of chunked vegetables. And was surprised. Though he hadn't held much hope for the offering, it was tasty.

"Unfortunately," Marion whispered, "he is not the only one to believe ill of my brother."

Arthur spooned up another bite of his rapidly diminishing meal.

"Come mirth, come woe, Baron Cardell opposes Francis." She inclined her head opposite. "You see him? He sits two past Antonio."

Arthur looked beyond Francis' brother to an older man who made him startle. The mass of curling black hair that sprouted from his jaw resembled a skunk's tail—black on either side of a gray streak that ran chin to chest. "The one with the beard?"

"That is him. Ere our brother's death, the baron was the count's confidante. He does not boast such an esteemed position with Francis."

"Why?"

"He and Francis do not like one another—never have, methinks never shall."

Tempted as Arthur was to suggest Baron Cardell might have a good reason, he said, "Why don't they like one another?"

From Marion's eyes rose a depth of wisdom far different from the face she had thus far revealed. "Because Francis cannot be controlled. Of course"—her voice grew more hushed—"the baron's true enmity lies in the king's decision to grant wardship of Abel and—"

"Hush Marion," Lady Aveline snapped. "Eat your meal."

Back into her shell Marion went.

Arthur took a spoonful of stew, but hardly had the vegetables hit the back of his tongue than his partner cleared his throat and turned his flushed face to him.

"Careful lest ye strain yer seams even more, my lord."

He was one to talk! Two—maybe three—of him could fit inside the man. Arthur dug deeper. When his milk arrived, he took a big gulp and nearly spat it out. It was thick and tasted as if sweetener had been added.

"About your clothes," Marion said a while later.

"Yes?"

"Your coat is beautiful, but rather lacking." She smiled apologetically. "Unless it is the new mode at court?"

Could he get away with that? Perhaps with Marion, but not with her mother who also awaited an explanation. And though Francis' attention appeared to be elsewhere, he wouldn't be surprised if he was tuned in.

"Nothing like that. It's just I'm a bit of a yo-yo with my weight. Sometimes one size, sometimes another." Actually with the onset of cancer, it was true. He had been getting smaller and smaller every day. But that was in the real world, a place to which he didn't have to return for however long this dream lasted.

From the confusion on Marion's face, it was as if Arthur spoke a foreign language. "It's a weight thing," He tried again. "I gain some, I lose some."

Marion nodded. "What of the surcoat?"

"Surcoat?"

"Your over coat." She glanced at the large man beside Arthur. He was wearing one of the heavily decorated coats, and peeking underneath he could see what resembled a shirt with tight-fitting sleeves buttoned down to his wrists.

Now Arthur understood. The red coat with its garish decorations was to be worn over the green. "I…don't care for layering."

Marion frowned. "And of the length?" She leaned in. "It doesn't cover your braie*."

What was that?

What a shock she would have if she were dreaming in Arthur's world. "Terrible, isn't it? If I've told my servant once I've told them a hundred times—cold water."

"They caused your coat to shrink?"

"It would appear so."

Lady Aveline looked around her daughter. "Could it be the coat is not yours, Lord Pierre?"

"Of course it is mine."

Lady Aveline's lids narrowed. "My son tells me you were not travelling with a servant, Can that be?"

Where was this second degree going? To the lie about the servant shrinking his coat or his assumed identity? In the next instant Arthur was struck by the possibility he was playing the part of someone other than Lord Pierre. It would certainly explain the dying soldier's rejection and the contents of the trunk.

That was probably it, but he couldn't admit it since it would mean Francis' wrath and questions he couldn't answer. He would have to play along, especially as it seemed far better to be a Lord than a servant—or a criminal.

"That's correct, my servant was unable to accompany me."

The dragon lady's plucked eyebrows arched.

Arthur turned his regard to Marion. "Do you know what a wyvern is?"

Once more, puzzlement came to roost. "A type of dragon. Surely you know that?"

Arthur nearly laughed at his recent assessment of Lady Aveline. "Of course." He glanced at the enormous tapestry on the wall behind. "Like that one."

"Nay, a wyvern has but two legs. A true dragon has four, like the on Givry's shield of arms."

"Oh." And it wasn't two headed as the dying soldier had spoken of. So much for evidence of Francis' guilt. "Your brother's shield of arms is different from Givry's, is that right?"

"Aye, Francis bears the gryphon,"

The half-eagle half-lion Arthur had glimpsed on his squire's shirt and several others' when he had come downstairs.

"My lord, my lord!" A woman ran across the hall, the veil on her head askew, eyes wide, Squire Jacques following. "He has taken the children!" She stumbled to a halt before Francis. "Taken them and gone from Givryn Spire!"

He stood. "How?" he roared above the buzz caused by the woman's words.

She raised a hand to reveal the rope dangling from her wrist, grasped the cloth encircling her neck. "He bound and gagged me, my lord."

"The beast!" Lady Aveline hissed.

Arthur looked to Francis' sister and thought he glimpsed hurt in the woman's eyes. What was going on? Hardly had the question formed than the pieces fell into place—Squire Jacques, who had returned empty handed… the book that said Sir Gilbert had stolen the boys from Givryn Spire following the attack one Lord Pierre. How could he have forgotten?

"When?" Francis demanded.

"After you rode from Givry this morn, my lord."

His nostrils flared. "I shall wash my hands in his blood!"

Not an idle threat. Poor Sir Gilbert. His only crime was trying to prevent the murder of two innocents. "He won't hurt them," Arthur said.

Francis' eyes pinned him like a fly to fly paper. "How do you know that?"

Because he knew Gil and—no! Gil had nothing to do with this. It was the account he had read of Beilschmidt. This, in a way, made him something of an authority. "Because I know Sir Gilbert."

Francis' lips curved, but it was hardly a smile. "I am sure you do."

Amid snickering, Arthur said, "He wants only to protect your nephews."

"And who, do you think, seeks to harm them?"

The murmur grew louder.

Arthur glanced at the people, saw dislike in some of their eyes, uncertainty in others. They had no idea what their "lord" was capable of. "Whoever has the most to gain, of course."

Francis' gaze hardened further. There had never been a possibility they would be friends, but still he had blasted the nonexistent bridge to kingdom come.

He strode from behind the table, causing Arthur to startle at the sight of him. If ever a man looked good in hose, it was Francis Bonnefoy.

"All of you"—he swept a hand around the room—"to your horses!"

Antonio Carriedo and thirty or more men stood, several in hose and above-knee shirts, though none cut quite the figure their lord did.

"Lord Bonnefoy!" a booming voice halted them. Baron Cardell unfolded his stout frame.

"Cardell?" Francis said.

"What of Givryn Spire?"

"In my absence, it will not be without. Antonio!" Francis searched out his brother. "Though I know you were to return to Kinsley on the morrow and would prefer to aid in my search, I ask that you remain here in my stead."

The younger man's jaw tightened. "As you wish."

Francis returned his attention to Cardell. "Ready yourself and your men."

"I would remain here."

"You ride with me."

"I—"

"Else await my return in a prison cell."

Time stretched, but finally the baron said, "I am your man, _my lord_."

It didn't take a genius to fathom the lie he just told. And from Francis' caustic smile, he was aware of it. He resumed his course.

A hand closed around Arthur's wrist, nails dug into him that he traced to the woman who reached past Marion.

"How dare you accuse my son of seeking to harm those boys," Lady Aveline hissed. "You know naught!"

No mother wanted to believe her child capable of the atrocity hers had committed—would commit. Deciding the best way to defuse the situation was to appeal to the grandmother in her, Arthur said, "All I know is that your grandsons—"

"Abel and Philippe are not of my blood, just as their father was not of my body." The words flew off her tongue with such passion there was no doubt she felt no love for the boys.

So she had been a second wife—maybe a third or fourth. "My apologies, Lady Aveline, I am simply concerned for the welfare of your son's nephews."

"Then look to the one who has taken them from their beds!" Lady Aveline released him.

Arthur glanced at the half moons scoring his flesh.

"Is it true you know Sir Gilbert?" Marion asked.

"I…yes, I do."

"You are friends?"

Did he detect jealousy? "In a manner of speaking."

"In a what?"

"Well, we—"

"Make ready, Lord Pierre," Francis' voice skinned Arthur's.

He was advancing on him. Unsettled by his return and this stuff about "making ready" he said, "What?"

"You shall come with me." He stepped onto the platform and put his palms on the table. "As you profess to know Beilschmidt, methinks you may prove useful in our search."

He knew from historical account that Beilschmidt's flight would take him to the monastery of Farfellow where he would be slain, but he had no intention of aiding this man. "I don't see how I can be of help."

"Still, you will come."

Another wild ride? "Are we talking horses?"

He leaned so near he could smell the wine on his breath. "Time is of the utmost, Lord Pierre. Thus, there will be no carriage, or, in your case, baggage wagon."

"I told you, I'm not a horse person. I can't ride. I-"

"You cannot ride?" Marion exclaimed. "How can that be?"

"Pray tell, _Lord Pierre_." Lady Aveline said.

Surprisingly, Francis came to his rescue—in a manner of speaking. "Five minutes. If you are not ready, I will take you as you are." He stalked away.

* * *

***Sennight – every week**

***Fortnight – Every two weeks**

***Braie – A medieval type of male underwear worn beneath hose. It's primary purpose was protection over comfort , so it is rather bulky. The fact that neither Arthur's tunic or coat is long enough to cover that area let's everyone know that he is going commando since the braie isn't bulging through the hose. (This is that buckle contraption that Arthur had trouble with last chapter)**


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N:There has been a little confusion with the characters, so here's my list. Francis is France, Arthur is England, Alfred is America, Gilbert is Prussia, Antonio is Spain, Natalia is Belarus.**

**The characters introduced in this chapter... Isabella is Belgium Arjan is the Netherlands, Baron Braginski (Ivan) is Russia. **

**All characters not mentioned above are OC**

* * *

**Chapter Six**

The horse again. Though Arthur had thought it was bad before, he realized how good he'd had it with Francis. He had held him securely, without threat of losing hold on him, but the man to whom he had entrusted him an hour ago lacked the strength and size of Francis. Time and again he caught air, slammed to the saddle, slid sideways, bumped his head against the knight's chin. It was miserable. And Francis was going to hear about it.

Teeth clenched to keep them from chattering in the chill night, Arthur glared at his nemesis where he rode ahead of his men. The full moon shone on his pale hair and caused light to undulate across the cape that flew from his shoulders.

Arthur sunk deeper into the cape he had been given. Where was Francis headed? Did he have a clue as to where Sir Gilbert might have fled? Before leaving the castle, he had divided his men. One group he sent to retrieve those searching for Lord Pierre's attackers to turn their efforts to his nephews. That left two contingents, one he headed up, the other led by a man whom Marion said was the most trusted of her brother's knights. Once over the stinking moat, the two contingents had ridden opposite one another.

The horse veered, once more snapping Arthur's head back against his escort's chin. He yelped.

The knight shouted, then spewed words so charged with anger they tripped over one another in their haste to be the first to exit his mouth.

Feeling himself slipping, knowing the horse's pounding hooves were his next stop in this nightmare, Arthur grabbed for something to hold onto and came up with a handful of mane.

The horse careened, tossed its head, and reared. Then he was falling.

_Now would be a good time to wake up_. His only lifeline the coarse hair his fingers tangled around, he held on as he twisted and slammed against the horse. Then his feet hit the ground as the animal came back to earth.

Though he risked being trampled, he knew that if he held on he would be dragged. He thrust backward, landed on his rear, rolled to his back, and was spared the beast's hooves by inches.

With a whiny the horse galloped away.

Arthur closed his eyes and let his aching muscles sink into the earth. It was a relief to feel the still ground beneath him. Though this dream had given him back his health, he tired of its gore, wild horse rides, uppity Lady Aveline, and temperamental "lord."

"Lord Pierre!"

In that moment, he would have welcomed a visit from an obnoxious salesman were he to awaken from this dream.

Armor pealed its familiar chime, feet landed with a thud, and a warm hand felt the pulse in his neck.

The louse probably had his fingers crossed in hopes he were dead. He opened his eyes. Before a scathing word could pass Francis' lips, his hands felt downward—over Arthur's collarbone, around his ribs, then his hips.

Arthur pushed onto his elbows. "I'm fine."

Francis turned his gaze on him.

For an instant, he thought he might have mistaken him, but it was Francis, a man transformed by moonlight that gentled his features and forgave him nearly every flaw—even the kink in his eyebrow.

"You are uninjured?"

Nothing felt broken, but he was one massive ache. "No thanks to you."

Francis' eyes caught the bare light and turned chill again. "Then let us delay no more." He straightened and motioned someone forward.

When he saw who it was, he scrambled to his feet. "If you think I'm getting back on that horse"—he jabbed a finger toward the advancing knight—"think again!"

The knight dismounted and stepped before Francis.

"Sir Marcel, what befell you that the lord with whom you were entrusted lost the saddle?"

"Forgive me, my lord. In all my years in your service, never have I taken my duties without due seriousness." He glanced at Arthur. "The man does not move with the horse, but against it such that my mount grew anxious. Thus, when we rounded the road, my horse reared. I was unable to keep hold of him."

"I shall deal with you later," Francis said.

As irked as Arthur was, he feared for the knight, as his father had said those words to him. Later, he had pared a willow branch and "tanned his hide," criss-crossing his rear with welts. With Francis, punishment was bound to be more harsh than a willow branch.

"Make ready to ride," he ordered the knight and started for his own horse. "Come, Lord Pierre."

His stride never broke.

"All right. _Lord_ Bonnefoy!" He caught his arm.

He halted, though only because he had reached his horse.

"What happened was my fault, not Sir Marcel's."

"That I do not doubt."

"Then why—?"

"Because he is a knight, a distinction attained through strength and stamina, courage and honor, blood and war. In giving you into his care, I asked little of him and, no matter the reason, he failed me. Thus, he will answer for his negligence." He looked to his hand on him. "Now that I have explained myself, which I need not do, 'tis time we continue our search."

When he lifted him onto the horse, Arthur lifted a leg and swung it over the opposite side. Francis mounted behind and settled his hard thighs alongside his.

Arthur looked over his shoulder. "You won't…kill Sir Marcel, will you?"

Dry laughter rumbled from him. "You are hardly precious to me, Lord Pierre."

It was the wake-up call he needed. Likely, his anger with the knight stemmed from his not having broken his neck.

Gripping Arthur securely around the waist, Francis spurred his horse into the night.

* * *

He liked him best in sleep. And what man would not? Unless, of course, the accusations in his eyes was replaced with passion, those on his lips captured by a meeting of mouths.

Arthur drew a deep breath where he had curled against Francis' chest when hours of discomfort and fatigue made him surrender to sleep, and opened his eyes. They stared at each other.

Francis felt it, was sure he felt it too, searched to put a name to the awareness that strained between them. Thirst, he decided, and not the kind eased with drink.

In the murk of dawn, a smile touched Arthur's mouth, but he blinked and it was gone. Once more, he looked at him as if he were the basest of men. Though he was but one among several who believed him responsible for his brother's death, he had gone further in not only accusing him of the attack on his baggage train but of intending to harm Abel and Philippe.

Curse him! He wanted him gone from Givry. As soon as Sir Gilbert and the boys were found, he would ride to Paris to speak with Charles on the matter.

Arthur straightened. "Where are we?"

"We have stopped to take food and water the horses."

Arthur looked to the others who remained mounted while their animals drank from the stream. "I'd like to stretch my legs."

"You need to relieve yourself?"

"No."

"Then you shall remain astride."

His chin came around. "In that case, I do need to _relieve_ myself."

"Then you will have wait until we stop again." As he sputtered, he reached behind, retrieved a bundle from one of his packs, and turned back the folded cloth. "Here."

He stared at the hard biscuits and dried meat. "No, thank you. I'm not hungry."

"As you will." Francis bit into a biscuit.

"While you enjoy your meal, surely I can take a little walk?"

"Nay."

He glared.

Francis reached for another biscuit. "Do not sulk. I abhor sullen men."

Francis was surprised to feel a smile at his mouth. "Methinks, if you slept more, my lord, I might grow fond of you."

"Pardon me?"

"Naught." He offered the bundle again. "'Tis all there will be to eat until we arrive at Castle Cirque."

"When will that be?"

"When we are done searching the neighboring villages."

He muttered something under his breath.

"Do you not eat it, I shall." He warned.

He snatched a piece of meat and a biscuit and turned his back to him.

Francis smiled.

A sunrise and three villages later, Arthur lifted his face from the huddle of his hood and peered at the looming castle. It was smaller than Givryn Spire. As he watched, the drawbridge descended with a creak of timber and clatter of chains. "Castle Cirque?" He asked.

"Aye."

The drawbridge touched down, the metal grate over the entrance rose, and a half dozen riders sprang from beneath it. Most conspicuous was the one who rode before the others—a woman, her blue dress and white veil fluttering. She rode sidesaddle, and as her and her escort neared, Arthur saw she guided her horse with one hand, while the other supported what looked like a bird.

When the woman reined in before Francis and his men, it was indeed a bird she held, but not of the garden variety. Its head was hidden beneath a head topped with bright feathers, it wore bells on its legs, and was strapped to the woman's gloved wrist.

"Welcome to Castle Cirque, Lord Bonnefoy."

Arthur eyed the woman. A vision of blonde hair and twinkling brown eyes, full breasts and a teeny waist, she looked like a fairy tale princess—until she smiled, revealing yellowed teeth and receding gums. Did these people know nothing about oral hygiene?

The woman laid a hand on Francis' arm. "Pray, why did you not send word of your arrival that I might prepare for you?"

"Twas not planned, Lady Isabella."

Was this woman mentioned in Gil's book?

"I come with ill fortune upon my house," Francis said.

"What has happened, Francis?"

How quickly she dispensed with formality, and how strange to hear Francis called by something other than his surname, which in Arthur's mind better served his villainous character.

"Abel and Philippe have been taken."

"Taken?" Shrill disbelief caused the bird to turn its hooded head towards the woman. "By whom?"

"By the man Charles sent to protect them, Sir Gilbert Beilschmidt."

A movement beyond the lady drew Arthur's gaze to a young man who sat tall in his saddle. As handsome as Lady Isabella was beautiful, the marked resemblance was surely no coincidence—golden hair, bright brown eyes, good cheekbones. A prince to Isabella's princess. But he did his sister one better when he smiled at Arthur, revealing strong white teeth.

At last, a friendly face. He returned the smile.

"Why would Sir Gilbert do such a thing?" Lady Isabella asked. "What gain for him?"

Arthur returned his attention to the woman and saw she only had eyes for Francis. Resisting the urge to pat himself to make sure he hadn't turned invisible, Arthur pushed the hood off his head.

"According to Lord Pierre," Francis said, "he took the boys to protect them from me."

Lady Isabella broadened her horizons to include Arthur. "You are Lord Pierre?"

"I am."

The self-assured woman of moments earlier twitched. "Excuse me if I am… surprised. Though I heard you were to be sent to care for Abel and Philippe, I did not know you had arrived."

"I almost didn't."

"Pray tell."

"My…" Once again Arthur's gaze was drawn to the young man. As if he also awaited an explanation, he leaned forward, gaze intent. "My baggage train was attacked."

Lady Isabella's eyes widened. "'Tis true, Lord Bonnefoy?"

"It is. Have you word of a knight travelling with two small boys?"

"I fear not."

"Then I shall need all the men you can spare."

"They are yours to command."

This place was under his rule? It seemed so. Until, of course, Givry's heir came of age. Not that either boy would.

"Come to my hall," Lady Isabella said, "While you and your men may refresh yourselves, I will send garrison to the village to inquire if any have heard or seen anything unusual."

"My thanks, Lady Isabella, but we have already inquired."

Her lids fluttered. "still you will come inside, will you not?"

"Aye, though only long enough to rest ourselves and our mounts that we might set out again."

There was no mistaking her disappointment. "As you will, my lord." She looked beyond him and inclined her head. "Lord Cardell."

"My lady."

Lady Isabella turned her horse and the young man fell in beside his sister. Together, they led the way to the castle.

When Francis lifted Arthur down from his horse, he was tempted to kiss the ground. And might have if not that he was so sore. Slowly, he followed Francis and Lady Isabella up a dozen steps and into a room that resembled Givryn Spire's great hall, complete with hay on the floor.

Using his study of the room as an opportunity to rest his legs, he stepped to the side. Francis' men filed past, eager to accept the drink offered to them. As for the beauteous Lady Isabella and Francis, the two stood center, deep in conversation.

"Lord Pierre." The young man, whose looks were testament to the shared blood between him and his sister halted alongside Arthur.

"Yes?"

He gave a curt bow. I am Sir Arjan, cousin to Lady Isabella."

Cousin… "It's a pleasure to meet you." How old was he? Twenty-five?

"You are surely blessed to have survived the attack," he said as he led him forward.

"I am. It was…" Memories of the carnage flashed before him. "It was horrid."

"There were no survivors?"

"None."

"Regret shone in his warm brown eyes. "I am sorry."

As they passed a cavernous fireplace, Arthur was struck by its heat. It had to be eighty-five degrees in here. Of course, it didn't help that before leaving Givry, he had pulled the red coat over the green. He reached for the clasp that held his cape closed, but it resisted his efforts.

"Mayhap I can assist?" Arjan offered.

"I can manage." But he was still struggling with it when they halted before Francis and Lady Isabella.

In spite of the woman's hand on Francis' arm, it was obvious he had been watching Arthur—and that he had done something to displease him. Abandoning the clasp, he lowered his arms. It was then he saw the gryphon on the sleeveless shirt Francis wore over his armor, the same as that worn by his squire. As his cape had covered it during the ride, the lapels of which were now thrown over his shoulders, it was the first he had seen it.

"Lord Bonnefoy, you remember my cousin, Sir Arjan."

Francis lowered the goblet he had tipped to his lips and inclined his head. "Sir Arjan."

"My lord."

The bird on Lady Isabella's wrist ruffled its feathers.

She stroked it. "Arjan received knighthood this past spring, a year early due to an act of bravery that saved the life of his lord, Baron Braginski. To show his appreciation, the baron awarded my cousin—"

"'Twas naught," Sir Arjan said.

Francis considered the knight for some moments as if to determine if he was worthy of his new title, then said, "What do you at Castle Cirque, Sir Arjan?"

"I have no lands of my own. Thus, I have given myself into the service of my cousin."

"What of Baron Braginski?"

"He gave me leave to do so, my lord."

Francis opened his mouth to say something more, but closed it when his regard was captured by the armed soldier who strode into the hall.

"'Tis the captain of the guard," Lady Isabella said. "I shall not be long." She turned to her cousin. "Arjan."

He looked to Arthur and bowed again. "My lord." Led by the captain of the guard, he and his cousin withdrew from the hall.

"I wager you are sore," Francis said.

"What makes you think that?"

He swept his gaze over Arthur. "You are not quite as tall as you were ere we rode from Givry."

He narrowed his eyes. "Have you ever considered a career in stand-up comedy?"

He frowned.

"Never mind." He lifted the clasp and resumed his struggle with it.

"Do not remove your mantle."

Context telling him it was his cape he referred to, he said, "It's hot in here." An instant later, the clasp revealed its secret.

Francis gripped his hand. "Do as I say."

"I will not."

"Lest you forget, you are more out of your clothes than in them."

So they were on the tight side. He wasn't the first to squeeze into clothes a size or two too small.

"I have warned you about your displays." He leaned near. "Though I cannot say my own men would turn from whatever temptation you place before them, those of Cirque are to be trusted ever less." His gaze intensified. "Have you ever been ravished, Lord Pierre?"

As in raped? When he put it that way… But was it his well-being he was concerned about, or was he just giving him a hard time? Francis was wearing less clothing than Arthur was at the moment, yet no one wanted to "ravish" him! What was his deal? He thought medieval people were supposed to homophobic, not gushing over any guy who walked out to dinner without the proper coat on.

"Of course, mayhap a man would not have to resort to force to have you."

Taking the dream to heart as if it was Arthur Kirkland he smeared and not a man whose reputation proceeded him, he said, "How dare you!"

He put his head to the side. "Such outrage, Lord Pierre. Surely you do not think to convince me you are untouched?"

"Of course not!" Immediately he regretted the denial. It was none of his business that he and Alfred had tumbled around the bed—on the rare occasion they were under the same roof. Hating the glint in Francis' eyes, he said, "Think what you will."

"I do. Hence, the mantle stays."

And if he defied him?

His grip tightened. "It stays."

Grudgingly, he nodded.

He released him and carried the goblet to his lips.

A servant handed Arthur a goblet. Too thirsty to reject the purplish-red contents, he took a long drink and nearly gagged. Not only was the wine watered down, but it was warm.

He blew his bangs up off his brow and affected a high wavering voice, "I'm melting."

His impersonation of the Wicked Witch earned him Francis' frowning regard.

He shrugged. "Never heard of the land of Oz?"

"That is where you are from? Oz?"

Why not. "Yes."

His lids narrowed. "I have not heard of it. It is on this continent?"

"Uh… yes."

"Where?"

Thankfully a young woman dressed in a rough wool dress appeared. "My lord, they say you are looking for two small boys and a knight."

Francis turned to her. "What have you to tell me?"

"Methinks I saw them this morn on my way to the castle."

"Continue."

"I heard laughter and followed it to the river. There I saw two boys and a man clothed not as a knight, but who had a horse worthy of one—a black stallion fit with a fine saddle."

Arthur sensed Francis' agitation, was certain it was all he could do to keep his feet rooted to the floor.

"How old were the boys?"

"four and… seven?"

"What of the knight?"

"He was of an age, my lord. Tall."

"What color of his hair."

"Silver, my lord. The likes I never seen."

It sounded like Gil. The thought forced Arthur to regroup. This was a dream. Of his own making. Thus, he shouldn't be surprised if Gilbert Beilschmidt played a part.

Francis stepped nearer the girl. "Were you seen?"

She had to look so far up that her eyes nearly rolled back in her head. "Nay. My lord. I hid. All know the wood is travelled by men of ill repute."

"You will take me to where you saw them."

"But what of my lady? Forsooth, she will not like—"

"What is your name?"

"Francine, my lord."

"Worry not, Francine. Lady Isabella will understand." He took her arm and called to his men.

The thought of getting back on a horse causing his aches to multiply, Arthur started to follow.

"You shall remain, Lord Pierre," Francis said. "I will not have you slowing me."

Then he was abandoning him. Not a bad thing. He smiled. "Drive safe."

Questioning came and went on his face, then he was striding from the hall with the serving girl in tow.

All that remained were those of Lady Isabella's household—predominantly men. And they were watching Arthur. He shrugged, lifted the goblet, and sipped its wretched contents.


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

As the only remaining occupant of the hall, Arthur turned his attention to the skin-and-bone dogs that snuffled amid the hay in search of fallen morsels. Poor things. They looked ready to lie down and give it all up.

"Lord Pierre." Isabella had returned with her bird. "I trust you fared well in my absence."

"I have." Arthur noted the woman's flushed cheeks and the tic at a corner of her mouth as she advanced. "I suppose you know Bonnefoy has taken Francine and gone in search of his nephews?"

Isabella's disposition soured further. "Though I warned him the wench lies with the tongue of a snake, he would not be turned from his course."

Wench… Arthur didn't like that word.

Isabella sighed. "I will have to deal with the trollop when she comes skulking back."

From wench to trollop. "What makes you think she's lying?"

The woman stroked her bird. "Likely she fancies Lord Bonnefoy, as does many a woman. 'Tis curious that he attracts them so." Isabella slid her gaze to Arthur. "He is hardly handsome, is he? I wonder that anyone would welcome his embrace."

_Looks aren't everything,_ Arthur silently defended him, surprising himself. He actually thought Francis looked rather… nice…

Watchful, Isabella said, "I pity the person who must take him to husband."

A lie if Arthur ever heard one. From the body language that fairly shouted from this woman, she would not only welcome Francis' embrace but pity herself if another were to "take him to husband."

The lady puffed her chest with new breath. "Enough, though. Let us speak of you, Lord Pierre."

Not a good topic. "After that horrendous ride, I'd like to clean up and rest."

Isabella put a hand on his arm. "Once your chamber has been made ready, you may do so."

"No need to put yourself out for me. Whatever you have will work fine."

"Nay, Lord Pierre, 'twould be remiss of me not to provide for a _friend_ of the king."

She was suspicious of Arthur as Lady Aveline had been. "Really, I don't mind—"

"Surely you can spare me a few minutes?"

Arthur swallowed his sigh. "All right."

"Now, with regards to your coat…"

Not where Arthur wanted to go. "Is your bird blind?"

Isabella frowned. "He is a hawk and, nay, he is not blind. Why do you ask?"

"The thing over his head."

"'Tis a hood." She laughed. "I am surprised Lord Pierre. Know you naught of hawking?"

"I've led a rather sheltered life." Or _had_. It was a long way from the grits and gravy of the countryside to the grit and grime of London.

Isabella's gaze reflected her deepening suspicion, and suddenly the topic of Arthur's clothing didn't sound as bad.

"About my coat," he said.

The woman clung to her misgivings a moment longer, then took the bait. "Lord Bonnefoy said it does not fit well, that you have…" She smiled faintly. "…added weight."

Arthur clucked his tongue. "It's all that fancy food they serve at court."

The woman smoothed a hand down her eighteen-inch waist. "I'm afraid my cousin's clothes will not fit you. He is rather large."

"Then I'll have to make do with what I have."

"His servant, Eric, is a small man, though mayhap not as scrawny as you. He may have something you can borrow."

Never had Arthur been called scrawny when he was healthy. He was no child—at least, not in this dream—but one hundred fifty pounds on a five foot eight frame seemed reasonable. In fact, he would give anything to be this weight again when he awoke.

"Are you not warm, Lord Pierre?"

So much that the coat and hair at the back of his neck clung. However, as much as he wanted to throw off the cape, not only would the unfitting clothes elevate the woman's suspicions, it would invite further insult. "Actually, I'm chilled."

"You must be ailing." Isabella turned so abruptly her pet flapped its wings. "Come, let us draw near the fire."

Kicking himself all the way, Arthur followed her to the hearth where the woman passed her hawk onto a perch and lowered into the largest of three chairs.

As Arthur settled onto the chair beside hers, Sir Arjan entered the hall.

"Arjan, dear," Lady Isabella said, "join us."

"All is well?" He halted alongside the fireplace and raised a booted foot to the hearth.

"Quite," Isabella said.

Arthur felt perspiration trickle down his back.

"You are not what I expected, Lord Pierre," Isabella said, looking cool in spite of the heat beating on her. But then, the material of her gown was light and her hair braided off her neck.

Trying not to squirm, Arthur said, "How is that?"

"Your peculiar speech, mannerisms, lack of… well… gentility."

Arthur glanced at Arjan who looked suddenly uncomfortable. Before Arthur's mother divorced her abusive husband, Arthur had often felt the sting of such cruelty, especially from other children. Then he and his mother moved to London. For years, his mother put in twelve-hour days in hopes of raising her son above an eighth grade education. For the first time in Arthur's life, he had worn halfway decent clothes, made friends, and competed in school academic tournaments that earned him a scholarship. His mother's selflessness had leveled the playing field so Arthur would never again feel inferior to anyone. But then came Alfred's mother, an American blue-blood who had done her best to keep Arthur off the playing field, even when a relationship with her son had made an Undesirable her possible son-in-law.

"I have heard you have not a surname," Isabella fueled the fire. "that you are not of the nobility."

Arthur rose. "If you would tell me where my room is, I will leave you to your needlepoint—or whatever you do for intellectual stimulation."

Isabella feigned surprise. "Why, Lord Pierre, have I offended you? I vow 'twas not intended."

"I'm tired. Where's my room?"

"Come now, do not be so—"

"I'll find it myself." Arthur started for the doorway. Gentility! He had more class in his little finger than Miss High and Mighty had in her entire body. So if she thought—

Arthur applied the brakes to his indignation. Was that what this dream was about? Dealing with demons of his past? Coming to terms with the child in him, the insecurity he had worked to overcome?

"Do you think you can satisfy him?" Isabella called.

Arthur had been too caught up in self-analysis to realize he was followed. He turned. "Satisfy who?"

"You know I speak of Francis."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your marriage, Lord Pierre." A feline smile curved her mouth. "Surely you have not forgotten?"

* * *

**A/N: Reviews are always appreciated!**


	9. Chapter 8

**A/N: Hopefully this chapter will help to clear up some confusion. Please enjoy~**

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

Marriage to Francis? It made no sense. The book had said Lord Pierre was sent to care for his nephews. Could there be more to it? More that was never known due to his disappearance? Or was this a set up?

"Poor Francis," Isabella lamented. "I wonder how he shall feel when he learns he is to wed the leavings of another man."

Sir Arjan appeared over Isabella's shoulder. "Cousin!"

"Quiet, Arjan!"

He closed his mouth.

Letting Isabella's gibe roll off him, Arthur focused on the bigger picture. If the woman was telling the truth, how did she know of the marriage when Francis did not? Why wouldn't it have gone down in history? _Because this is only a dream._

"Naught to say, Lord Pierre?"

Arthur knew what the woman implied, but he wasn't letting any figment of his imagination get the better of him. "I'm merely curious about how you learned of the marriage."

The woman's poise faltered. "I have friends at court. As there was talk the king might match me with Francis, word was sent when you were chosen."

To Arthur, the thought of someone choosing his life partner was deplorable. It was a good thing he had been born during a more enlightened time. In the midst of congratulating himself, he remembered his relationship with Alfred. Arthur Kirkland was no poster child for wedded bliss.

"The… arrangements are between the king and me," he said. "It is not common knowledge." If the marriage had been fabricated to expose him as a fraud, that should throw a wrench in the works.

Lady Isabella tried on a smile a size too large. "There are no secrets at court, Lord Pierre. Surely you know that. Even the walls have ears."

"I must remember to warn the king next time we meet."

That unsettled Isabella enough to drop her chin a notch. But what about Francis? When he returned, would Isabella tell him of the marriage that might not even be? That could get sticky.

Arthur tugged at the neck of his cape. "If you don't mind, Lady—"

"Why you?" Tears brightened Isabella's eyes. "Why did the king choose you?"

Then her disparaging comments about Francis' looks _were_ a smokescreen behind which to hide her wounded pride. Still, it was a good question. If Lord Pierre was to have married Francis, why had the king chosen a man of his reputation? A reputation he knew first hand? Why a man at all?

"I thought it might be my age," Isabella said, "but now that I have seen you, it cannot be. You must be at least twenty and five."

Twenty eight, soon to be twenty nine, but it was no compliment Arthur had received. From the woman's tone, she considered twenty-five old, as if she herself had not attained that age several years earlier. Thinking this might be another test and not knowing how old the real Lord Pierre would have been, Arthur put the question back on the woman. "How old are you?"

For a moment, it looked as if Lady Isabella would refuse to answer, but she said, "I have attained my twenty-third winter."

Was she lying? Pretty as she was—providing she didn't show her teeth—she looked nearer thirty. "Just out of curiosity, how old is Mr.—Lord Bonnefoy?"

"Francis is seven years older than I."

Thirty. Again, Arthur was off in his estimation, having guessed he was mid-thirties. It seemed people of the past had aged more rapidly.

The chamber is ready, Lady Isabella," someone said.

Over his shoulder, Arthur saw a man on the stairway.

"You have not answered me," Isabella said. "Why would the king choose a man of low birth and morals to wed his finest vassal?"

They were back to name calling. "I'm just unlucky, I guess."

Stunned silence.

Lead the way," Arthur said to the man on the stairs. Only when he was out of sight of Isabella did he allow his shoulders to relax.

"Lord Pierre," Arjan called as he stepped off the stairs into a passageway.

He turned. "Yes?"

"I pray you will accept my apology." My cousin means no harm. She is merely pained by her loss."

The woman had no idea that a favor was being done her. "I understand."

"I thank you, my lord."

"No problem." Arthur turned from the confusion he had a knack for putting on the face of most everyone he encountered in this dream and entered a room smaller than the one he had been given at Givryn Spire. Again, there was only a bowl and a pitcher of water for bathing.

"I am Eric," the servant said.

Arthur looked more closely at Arjan's servant who might have clothes he could borrow. He was not as tall as Arthur, but there would be plenty of swimming room in any garment he might loan.

"My master has given me to serve as your servant for the duration of your stay."

What was behind the generosity? From Eric's white linen shirt to the bottom of his shoe, he looked harmless enough, but looks could be deceiving.

"Do you need anything, you have but to ask. _Is_ there anything you require, my lord?"

Arthur considered the bed, the stool, and the three-legged table. "You have no idea," he muttered. "No, thank you. I require nothing—or 'naught' as you people say."

As the man turned to the door, Arthur ran his tongue across his teeth and grimaced. "I take that back."

Eric looked around.

"I could use a toothbrush and paste."

"I shall see what I can find."

As for the uncomfortable feeling of his hose… "I don't suppose you have any extra underwear laying around?"

"Underwear, my lord?"

"To cover your… private parts."

The man frowned. "Surely you mean braies?"

Was that what they were called? "Yes braies."

"I'm afraid not."

Arthur rubbed a hand across his face. "I'll need some material, needle and thread, and scissors." He knew only a little of sewing he'd learned from his mother, but how hard could it be?

Eric made a sound in his throat. "I shall return anon, my lord."

When he was gone, Arthur lowered his aching bones to the feather mattress. Now if he could stay awake long enough to brush his teeth and remedy his pesky under garment problem.

* * *

_How hard could it be?_ Arthur silently mocked as he sucked a finger. Though the needle was so dull it could barely pierce cloth, it suffered no such difficulty where flesh was concerned.

"Mayhap you ought to leave it for later, my lord," suggested the man whose threadbare tunic hung shapeless on Arthur.

Arthur considered the man perched on the stool, then the crude garment. Excepting a drawstring that would have to do in place of elastic, it was finished. "Tell me about Lady Isabella."

"Ah, I fear she does not like you, Lord Pierre."

"That's obvious." As Arthur picked up the material he hoped to transform into a drawstring, he tongued his lower front teeth in hopes of dislodging the bristle there. The 'toothbrush' Eric had brought—a miniature broom—had left behind several reminders of its crudity.

"You must forgive the lady," Eric said. "Her life has not been easy."

Didn't Isabella take responsibility for anything? First Arjan, now the servant apologizing for her.

"She should never have been wed to a man old enough to be her grandfather twice."

Arthur blinked. "Lady Isabella is married?"

"Lord Thurford died last summer. Four score, he was."

Eighty. Talk about robbing the cradle.

"The lady had hoped the king would match her with Lord Bonnefoy. They were once to have wed, you know."

The needle slipped and caught in the flesh beneath Arthur's thumbnail. He grunted and pulled it out. "Come again?"

Confusion.

"I mean… say that again."

"They were betrothed. You did not know?"

Never a dull moment. "What happened?"

"Six months ere the wedding, Lord Bonnefoy went to England to help put order to the king's war. Following the recapture of Harwich, word of Lord Bonnefoy's death was brought to Lady Isabella. While she grieved, her father made a marriage between her and Lord Thurford."

Though Arthur didn't want to pity the woman who had tried to make him feel like scum, sympathy crept in. So did suspicion. Why was the servant so forthcoming?

Eric cleared his throat. "Hardly were the vows spoken and the marriage bed warmed than Lord Bonnefoy returned to make a lie of his demise. Broke the lady's heart, she so loved Lord Bonnefoy."

Was this what had soured him—put him on the road to murder? Arthur scratched his side, chafed by Eric's wool tunic. "When did this happen?"

"The lady was fifteen when she wed the old baron and is now twenty and three."

Fifteen years old! There were laws against that—in the twenty-first century. Arthur threaded the drawstring through the casing.

"Poor Isabella, she who should have been wife to a count wasted on a fool."

The story grew muddier. "Isabella was to have been wife of a count? But you said she was betrothed to Bonnefoy."

"Aye, and he would have been count if his older brother had not turned from the monkhood to take his father's title."

Following this was about as easy as wrestling a Rubik's cube.

Eric frowned. "'Tis strange you know naught of this."

"As I'm sure you know, King Charles is a busy man. Since my betrothed didn't become count, he must not have thought it important to mention. So what made Bonnefoy's brother change his mind?"

Though Eric looked skeptical, he said, "'Twas the count's mother who convinced him to take his birthright."

"She's not dead?"

"She is now. Let me explain. After five years of marriage to his first wife, Francis' father sent the woman to a convent in England where he had her take vows to become a nun. That done, the church granted him an annulment that allowed him to wed Francis' mother, Lady Aveline. Thus. Had Francis become count, he would not have attended the king's war and would now be wed to Lady Isabella."

Arthur congratulated himself on wading through the mishmash. But though he knew he should accept the pats on the back and run, it would be foolish to not take advantage of Eric's knowledge. "I understand the count of Givry may have been murdered. What do you think?"

"You are asking if I believe your betrothed murdered his brother?" A hint of a smile wrinkled his upper lip.

He seemed pleased with himself, as if he had led Arthur down a path Isabella had said he should.

"'Twas likely he did it. 'Tis not beyond one such as Lord Bonnefoy."

A ruthless military advisor. Still, Arthur had the feeling Isabella was behind Eric's revelations, that all the man said was designed to send Arthur scurrying for cover. "For argument's sake, let's say it wasn't Lord Bonnefoy. Who else could it have been?"

The question seemed to set Eric back. After some moments, he allowed, "I suppose 'tis possible it was simply an accident."

"And if not?"

Eric shrugged. "Mayhap you ought to look to the one who attacked your baggage train, my lord."

Francis Bonnefoy.

"Too, it could have been Baron Cardell."

Arthur frowned. "Why would he do such a thing?"

"He covets wardship of Abel and Philippe, which the count promised him in the event of his death. 'Tis a position of great power."

Sticky. "How did Francis Bonnefoy gain wardship of the boys?"

"By the king's decree. Lord Bonnefoy is a favorite of his."

"But if Cardell may have killed the count, why does Bonnefoy allow the man to accompany him?"

Eric smiled. "Better at his side than his back, eh?"

True. "One more thing, Eric, did Bonnefoy ever marry?"

Laughter escaped the man. "Nay, though many a match the king has tried to make."

Was he mooning over Isabella? If so, what held him back when there seemed no more barriers?

Eric leaned near. "I pray that all I have told you will help you better understand my lady and the reasons for the things she says and does."

There was more to the servant than met the eye. Perhaps Isabella hadn't put him up to this chat. "You must care very much for her."

"I have known her since her birth." Eric stood. "I shall come for you ere the nooning meal."

Only then did Arthur realize how hungry he was, his last meal having consisted of a biscuit and a piece of meat. Transported back to the stream, he remembered awakening to find himself curled against Francis, his face above his, gaze intent. It had been as if seeing him for the first time, and for a moment he had found it hard to believe that he and the villain of Gil's book were the same.

A creak and groan returned Arthur to Castle Cirque and the man slipping out the door.

"Eric!"

He poked his head back inside. "My lord?"

Though the question of whether or not Francis had returned Lady Isabella's love was on Arthur's mind, he held up his handiwork. "What do you think?"

Eric grimaced. "'Tis true that where you come from men wear this… underwear?"

"It's all the rage."

Eric shook his head and closed the door.

Arthur scrutinized the lopsided cut and uneven stitches. The underwear was a far cry from what he wore back home, but this was as good as it was going to get.

Shortly, he wished it got better. He gave the drawstring a final tug, pulled the hose over it, laid down on the bed, and tried not to squirm. At least he didn't feel as exposed. Definitely better, even if the material was as prickly as his borrowed tunic.

He tried to take his mind off the discomfort by pondering the questions tapping at the back of his head: did Isabella have anything to do with the count's death, the attack on Lord Pierre, Abel and Philippe's fiery end? He recalled the man's acknowledgement of Baron Cardell when they first arrived. Partners in crime?

It made more sense that Isabella and Francis were working together. Kill off the count, his sons, and Lord Pierre, and Francis would become count, opening the door for Isabella to become his wife. Of course, the murders might be unrelated.

It was a thought, and Arthur's last before sleep snatched it away.

* * *

"What is your name?" A voice rasped.

The man opened his eyes, searched beyond the grate twelve inches above where he lay. Though there had been no light before, there now shone enough to give shape to the dark one who stood over him. For a moment, he feared it might be death come to call, immured as he was in a cell in which there was only enough room to lie down—not much bigger than a coffin. Nay, he was very much alive, but for how long?

"Who are you?" He croaked, his own voice raw from hours—perhaps days—of calling for help.

"Your name!"

He lifted an arm and shuddered at the sound of scampering. He could hardly rest for keeping the rats from gnawing at him. Swallowing hard, he hooked fingers through the grate and lifted his head from the dirt floor. "Pray, tell me… why do you hold me?"

"I ask again, what is your name?"

He had thought the dark one was a man, but there was a quality about the voice that made him wonder if his captor was a woman disguising her voice. "First, tell me the reason I am here. Why you murdered—"

"Are you thirsty?"

He could not remember ever being so dry. "Aye."

"Hungry?"

Starving. "Aye."

"Then your name."

Naught to bargain with, only a name he would have thought he—or she—already knew.

"Do you know what this hole you are in is called?" He bent down. Eyes catching a cinder of light amid a shadowed hood, he stared at him through the grate.

"'Tis an oubliette, meaning a place to be forgotten."

He had known fear before, but nothing compared to that which dragged perspiration from his chilled skin. From the moment he had regained consciousness, a rank odor had pressed upon him that he refused to acknowledge. There was no hiding from it now. He wanted to grovel and plead, but a glimmer of spirit that was his father in him sought assurances. "You will bring me water and food?"

The dark one's eyes glittering large, he straightened, then turned and walked away.

"Pierre!" he cried. "I am Lord Pierre!"

His footsteps grew louder with his return. "What proof have you?"

Proof? All who had made the journey with him from Paris were surely dead, excepting perhaps his servant who had run screaming into the wood. "I tell you, I am Lord Pierre, sent to Givryn Spire by King Charles to care for the orphans Abel and Phillipe."

"_That _is your proof?" Mayhap you are but a servant.

"I am a lord!"

"I do not hear it in your speech."

Because it wasn't. Though he could affect the speech of the nobility as he had at court, fear made him revert to the commoner. "Am I not clothed as a lord?"

"Aye, but lords do not always make themselves known when they travel. 'Tis often safer."

He was saying he and his servant had switched clothes? Desperation gripped him more fiercely. He didn't want to die. Not here. Not like this. _Think! You have not come this far to die so young._

He gripped the grate tighter. "The larger of my trunks has a false bottom. In it is a missive written by the king and addressed to Lord Bonnefoy." Forget that it was intended for none but Bonnefoy. It was all the proof he had, the only thing that might save him from this place of forgotten souls.

"I have read it," His captor said.

Then he knew?

"Tell me," he said, "what does it say?"

"That I am to wed Lord Bonnefoy."

"That is all?"

Far from it since what was contained in the latter part of the missive was more the reason for its concealment. Feeling as if he betrayed, though his captor already knew the contents, he said, "It says the marriage is by order of my father, King Charles."

The dark one clapped. "Excellent, Lord Pierre."

"You will release me?"

He sighed. "Alas, 'twould seem you are exactly where you belong." He strode opposite.

All for naught. As surely as he breathed, not a crumb of food or a drip of water would be forthcoming. "My father will have your head for this!"

A door creaked open. "First he must find his bastard son. I think not."

Pierre wailed and shook the grate until blood fell from his fingers and ran with his tears.

* * *

**Aaaaand, that's a wrap! Reviews are always appreciated, I do hope you enjoyed Chapter Eight.**


	10. Chapter 9

**A/N: Sooo, this is the shortest chapter besides the prologue so far. :/ Please enjoy it though, sorry for my slow down in updates.**

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

The grim reaper at his back. Heaving breath, racing heart, pounding fear. The scythe sluicing the air, its death whisper shearing the hair from his nape. A strangled cry. Louder and louder until it wrenched him from the darkness into a day on which the sun was setting.

Arthur opened his eyes and traced the long shadows that fell across the carpet he sprawled on, in the next instant thanked God his appointment with death had been only a dream. Not that it wouldn't happen soon enough.

As much as he wanted to put the dream behind him, he had to write it down before it faded. He lifted his head and groaned at the pain behind his eyes and the aches sleep had done little to alleviate. What time was it?

He looked at his watch. 4:57 p.m. He had slept close to twenty hours. He needed more sleep, but not until he made a journal entry. As he struggled up from the floor, his gaze fell on Gil's book.

"Bonnefoy." Only a dream, but so vivid it was as if he had truly traveled back in time. It was different from any dream he had ever had, and he recalled every moment though the nightmare from which he had awakened was fast slipping away. Why wasn't he struggling to hold onto the rapidly fading memories of a distant time, a far away place, an imagined man?

It must be sleep deprivation. Time and again his subjects reported that their dreams seemed true to life, and their recall had been incredibly detailed. Too, the dreams were lucid in that the subjects were aware they were dreaming and consciously acknowledged it as Arthur had. But this…

He made it to his desk and dropped into the chair, but as he opened the journal, nausea sent him lurching to the bathroom. Afterword, he pressed his brow to the cool tile floor and struggled to hold sleep at bay. When it beckoned more forcefully, he dragged himself upright, leaned against the sink, and splashed cold water on his face. It helped, though still he longed to curl up and go to sleep. Lifting his head, he came face to face with his reflection.

One look gave a whole new meaning to "death warmed over." He drew a trembling hand down his gaunt face. How much longer? A month? A week? Days? Fighting tears, he touched his baldness. And he had wanted to come back to this, had been desperate to escape a dream called Francis so he could return to this real world with all of its ugly truths.

He closed his eyes and remembered how it had felt to run, to breathe deeply, to be free of headaches, to drag fingers through his hair, To feel that way again, he would gladly suffer Francis Bonnefoy.

"Now I understand, Gilbert," he whispered. But if he was able to return to the dream, would he begin to believe as he had done? Would he drive himself mad with the certainty that the people and places were real?

He couldn't let that happen. He was an authority on sleep disorders and dreams and knew the difference between reality and fantasy. No matter how appealing the dream was, he would be a fool to believe in it. He trudged back to his desk.

_September 13__th__, 5:15 p.m.: Following eighty-six hours of sleep deprivation, succumbed to sleep on September 12__th__ at approximately 10:30 p.m. No EEG (too tired to hook up). Awoke September 13__th__ at approximately 5:00 p.m. following 18-1/2 hours of continuous sleep. Recall two dreams: the one I awakened from in which I was chased by the grim reaper (subconscious). I remember the other dream in its entirety, as if I truly lived it. I read Gilbert's book "The Count of Givry" prior to sleep and dreamed myself into the story. Very detailed, right down to hay on the floor. No clue as to where I came up with the specifics. They weren't in the book, and I know little about medieval life, Another oddity is that I didn't recognize anyone, though one little boy seemed familiar. The dream was lucid, and many times I acknowledged I was dreaming. Though on several occasions I attempted to escape the dream, I was unable to. Events were as follows:_

Over the next hour, Arthur outlined his experience, beginning with his awakening in the forest and ending with him laying down in his room at Castle Cirque.

He lowered the pen, sat back, and dropped his lids over his burning eyes. Now sleep. Once he was rested, he could begin another cycle. He dreaded it, but if he was to conclude his research—

He opened his eyes. As much as he ached to sleep, it would be a waste of precious time. How much he had remaining, he didn't know, but the mirror didn't lie. He was dying. Four or more days building toward deprivation might be his last. He had to start now while he was still under a sleep deficit. So sick-tired that a sob caught in his throat, he picked up his pen.

_6:30 p.m. Begin second sleep deprivation cycle. Though all of me hurts, I have to use the balance of my sleep deficit if I'm going to—_

The doorbell rang. Mother? He glanced at the answering machine. Five messages. Fortunately, he'd had the foresight to turn off the ringer and volume to prevent the machine from interfering with his dreams.

The bell rang again. "Arthur?" Though the voice was muffled, it was his mother. "Are you home, dear?"

Arthur jumped up, retrieved the knit cap from the couch, and dragged it on. "Coming!" Though his legs dragged, he made it to the door and opened it to a lovely lavender ball of fluff.

Laurel Jacobsen's smile wavered at the sight of her son, but she was too experienced with false gaiety from fourteen years of marriage to Arthur's father to reveal her true depth of shock. She opened her arms.

Arthur went into them. "What are you doing here, Mom?"

Laurel wasn't ready to let go, but when she did, her smile was brighter than ever. "Checking on my boy." Her eyes flicked to the knit cap.

Arthur stepped aside. "Come in."

"Do you know how many times I've rang?"

Arthur straightened the cap so the false hair fell evenly across his brow. "Five times?" Feeling the throb of a headache, he closed the door.

"Four. Have you been out?"

"No, I muted my answering machine and haven't checked for messages all day."

"Why?"

"I'm trying to get some work done."

"But you're on leave."

It would have been better to say he had been resting. Affecting an ease that screamed in the face of exhaustion, Arthur took his mother's lavender handbag and set it on the sofa table. "Just because my project has been shelved doesn't mean I can walk away from it. Mom. The data needs to be compiled for the foundation that awarded the grant. More importantly, if someone decides to complete the study, my work will give them a leg up."

"Look outside, Artie," his mother reverted to the nickname he had used when Arthur was a child. "It's a beautiful day." She gestured to the windows. "Well, it was. You should have been taking in the sun. It would have put color in your cheeks."

Arthur crossed to his desk and stashed the journal in a drawer. "I know, but this is important."

"And your health isn't?"

His mother knew the diagnosis and that chemotherapy was unsuccessful but refused to accept it. Though Laurel had never believed in miracles, she professed to believe in them now—was certain her prayers would be answered.

"Artie?"

Arthur turned and admonished himself for coming around so quickly. "There are some things I need to do, mom. I can't just sit around waiting—"

"You need to get more sleep. There was fluster in Laurel's voice.

"Don't worry, I'm taking good care of myself." _Liar, liar. _Trying not to weave, he headed for the kitchen where he kept the pain relievers.

"Alfred called me. He's worried about you."

Arthur opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water and the vial.

"Oh, what's this?" Laurel asked.

Arthur looked over his shoulder at where his mother held Gil's book.

"This doesn't look like the usual research tome." She dropped back the cover and flipped through the pages. "Seems pretty old. What's it about?"

For some reason, Arthur felt as if caught with a naughty magazine. "A fourteenth-century French count. A friend gave it to me."

Laurel peered at the barely legible title. "The…Sins…of…"

Pained by his mother's struggle that went deeper than far-sightedness, Arthur finished for her "…the Count of Givry."

Laurels eyebrows jumped. "Doesn't sound dry at all. Finished with it?"

"Pretty much."

"Do you mind if I borrow it?"

Inwardly, Arthur groaned. He should have known where the question was leading, but his mind was too slippery to stand straight. Still, it wouldn't hurt anything. "Go ahead."

"Wonderful. Jack just finished reading one of his thriller-killer books to me. After all that gore, I could use a good biography." Laurel tucked the book under her arm. "Now back to Alfred. He says you aren't returning his calls."

"Can I get you something to drink?"

"I'm fine, dear. Why won't you talk to Alfred?"

Arthur removed a cup from the dish rack. "He needs to move on, and so do I." He poured himself water and downed the pills.

"He wants to be here for you."

Arthur refilled his glass.

Laurel sighed. "Have you been eating enough?"

"I have." _Pants on fire._ "I'm fine, Mom. Really."

"How about I take you to that pizza kitchen you like so much?"

As hungry as Arthur was, and as empty as his refrigerator stood, he didn't want to go anywhere. How was he going to get out of this? "What about Jack?"

The mention of Laurel's second husband caused a glow to surface his mother's worry-weary face. "He'll understand."

He was a peach, had taken good care of Arthur's mother these past five years. Just knowing he would be there for Laurel when this was all over was a relief too great for words.

"Please, Artie?"

These _were _their last days together. "All right."

His mother beamed. "That's my boy. Now let's get you changed. You look as if you slept in your clothes."

He had. He stepped around his mother. "I'll just be a few minutes."

Alone in his bedroom, Arthur let his shoulders slump and closed his eyes. Sleep pounced on him. Forcing his eyes open, he stumbled to the closet.

Though he longed to stay at the condo, the drive would refresh him and dinner with his mother would be time well spent. Too, the outing should be good for at least a few hours toward his next cycle.

* * *

Laurel Jacobsen clenched her teeth to hold back the emotion in her throat. Her baby was sick. Might even—

No, God wouldn't take Arthur. He wouldn't!

"I'm ready," Arthur said.

Laurel drew a deep breath and turned. Her son wore his denim jeans and button-up shirt that had both looked lovely on him last year. Now they hung from him.

_Please, God_. Laurel gripped the book tighter and summoned a smile so tight it hurt. "Then we're off."

* * *

The entry was made. With an additional seventy-two hours of deprivation, it was time.

Arthur confirmed that the electrodes attached to his head were secure, then flipped on the machine.

Would this night's dream be as vivid as the other? Lucid? He thought again of Francis who had yet to fade from his memory. Supposing he hadn't awakened, where would the dream have taken him?

He began to slide into himself and out of consciousness. _Think of something else, like snorkeling in the Bahamas, sand between your toes, the political mayhem in America, anything but Francis. _Though it wasn't likely he would find himself back in that crazy dream, there was no need to set the stage when there were so many other places his dreams could take him. Of course, would he be able to run them? Would his health be restored? Or was he headed for a nightmare?

Fight it though he did, Arthur's thoughts returned to a man whose strong arms had held him securely. Who hadn't let him fall.


	11. Chapter 10

**A/N: Hello all! Sorry for the long break, but I needed to catch up on homework and find a beta for this story. My new beta is Kitty29, and she is the absolute greatest. *gives kitty a round of applause* I hope you enjoy this next chapter!**

**Chapter Ten**

_Did he appear because I fell asleep thinking of him?_

_If only I'd known I was dreaming, I'd never have awakened._

_~Ono No Komachi_

Francis stared at Isabella. "Gone?"

Her gaze flitted to Arjan. "Aye, my lord. Following your departure two days past, Eric saw Lord Pierre settled in his chamber. When he went to fetch him for the nooning meal, the lord was gone.

"Impossible."

"But true, my lord."

"Is it?"

Disbelief widened Isabella's eyes. "Surely you do not believe I—"

"Nay." Or did he? He stared at the woman who would have been his wife if King Charles had not called him to arms. She of beauty, a pleasing disposition, and a cunning streak of which he had quickly become aware during their betrothal; though Isabella was spoiled and self-centered, he did not believe she had anything to do with Pierre's disappearance.

He looked past his men to Isabella's knights and men-at-arms who had gathered in the hall to receive him. Had one of them succumbed to Pierre's wantonness as he had warned him might happen? "No one saw anything?"

"The entire household was questioned, my lord," Isabella said. "None saw him leave. He just… disappeared."

A caustic muttering drew Francis' gaze to the man who stood before an alcove. Cardell. Fury, spurred by the antagonism that had trebled between them these past days, leapt through Francis. He did not need to hear Cardell's words to know he believed Francis was responsible for Pierre's disappearance—just as he let it be known he believed Francis was responsible for the death of Abel and Philippe's father.

"If you have something to say, Cardell, speak!"

The Baron stood taller. "I was but clearing my throat."

Francis imagined fitting his hands around the man's neck. He should have sent him from Givry at his first utterance of dissension, but he was not finished with his brother's favored vassal. Not yet.

Cirque's senior knight fell next beneath Francis' regard. "How could this happen?"

The man's brow mapped bewilderment. "It could not have, my lord. All entrances to the castle are guarded. No one comes or goes unchecked."

"Lord Pierre did—else he is still here."

"My lord, a thorough search of the castle was made and naught was found of him."

"Then it will be searched again." Francis motioned a knight forward. "Sir Andrew, organize the men and begin the search."

As the knight turned away, Isabella touched Francis' arm. "'Tis not necessary, I tell you. He is gone."

"We shall see."

Isabella dropped her hand from him. "He makes fools of us. Why, he has likely returned to Paris and warms the king's bed even now."

Why that possibility should rankle him, Francis did not know, but he disliked Pierre all the more for it. Refusing to examine what was behind his rancor, he dragged himself back. Might Pierre have fled to Paris as Isabella suggested? Believing Francis responsible for the attack on him, he had tried to escape once before.

"Unless, of course, he is not the lord he claims to be," Isabella submitted on the sly.

The thought had played through Francis' mind these past days, especially when he recalled his flight through the woods. A serviceman? Unlike any he had ever encountered. Then there was his speech that was foreign, yet familiar. It had taken a while to place it, but when he had, he had castigated himself for not connecting him with Sir Gilbert. With the exception of Pierre's barely perceptible differences, most likely in region, their speech was strikingly similar—almost a form of an English accent. They must come from the same place; and what of his coat that fit so poorly? If it was his, it was several years removed from the man he had become.

"Francis?" Isabella said. "What think you?"

That the light-haired man was more likely a lord's servant, but as always, he recalled the clothes he had worn when first he had come upon him. They had belonged to a lord, not a servant, and unlike that into which he had changed at Givry, it had fit every angle and curve.

He met Isabella's gaze. "'Tis Lord Pierre."

"You are certain?"

Certainty had nothing to do with it. How could it? Though rumors had abandoned over Charles' newest conquest, Francis had had better things to do than pay them heed. Now he wished he had, not all would be known once the King received the messenger sent to Paris to carry news of the attack on Lord Pierre. If Francis knew Charles, and he believed he did, the king would not be long in sending a contingent to investigate the deaths of his men. At that time, Pierre's identity would be confirmed or denied.

"'Tis Lord Pierre who was sent to care for Abel and Philippe," Francis said, "and that he will do when he is found." Unless he was able to convince Charles otherwise.

"But the boys are—"

"They will be found." He pinned his gaze to Isabella, daring her to say different. Two long days of hard riding, searching, and following every scent had led nowhere, but he wasn't done. As soon as he and his men were rested and the thunderously wet day that had driven them inside was past, they would continue the search.

Isabella put her head to the side. "You do not know, do you?"

What did she have behind her back? "Speak, Isabella."

"The King sent Lord Pierre to care for Abel and Philippe, but more, he sent him to you." Her eyes flashed. "He is to be your husband, Francis."

Years of self-control held him from revealing his disbelief. He and Pierre were to wed? It could not be. After his years of service to the crown, Charles would not do this to him. "He told you this?"

"Aye, though I had already heard tale."

Isabella and her talebearers. The woman's ears were everywhere.

"'Twas obvious he was unhappy about it."

_Pierre_ was unhappy? If it was true, he was not alone. Though time and again Charles had suggested matches aimed to increase Francis' modest land holdings, fill his coffers, and deliver him an heir, never had the king pressed the matter so far as to send him a _husband_. If that was what he had done, it could prove difficult to convince Charles otherwise; but Francis would, for his parents had taught him well the folly of an arranged marriage.

"'Tis surely the reason he left." Isabella sighed. "Mayhap he has not even returned to Paris but fled elsewhere."

To escape him. Francis rubbed the back of his neck, kneaded tight, aching muscles. All of his troubles had begun with Pierre—first, the attack on his baggage train, then Abel and Philippe's abduction, and now he was missing. What had Charles been thinking to send such a scourge upon him?

"I shall find him." When he got his hands on him…

He had done it again. Arthur sat up. Same room. Same dreadful tunic. Same makeshift underwear.

He scratched his left side, thigh, calf. The least he could have done was dream himself into something more comfortable, like those first clothes; but as he had drifted toward sleep on memories of Francis Bonnefoy, he had tried to fight him off with reminders of the unpleasantness of the fourteenth-century, including this room and these clothes.

He lowered his feet to the floor. Now what? Wait for someone to come? Considering the days he had just come through, his headaches so severe they had actually aided in keeping him awake, the choice was obvious. His health once more returned to him, right down to legs that longed to stretch, he stood. Bonnefoy or not, there was a lot to recommend this dream.

Wondering what awaited him in this installment, he crossed to the door and stepped into the passageway. Feeling younger than his twenty-eight years, he hurried down the stairs and into a flurry of activity. A moment later, a hush fell as all eyes found him, except Francis', whose back was turned to him.

He had come back. As for Lady Isabella, her eyes looked as if they might pop from their sockets. _What faux pas have I committed this time?_

Bonnefoy turned. Surprise reflected in his eyes, then anger.

Arthur raised his chin, determined he was not going to burst the bubble he had floated in on. "Am I interrupting something?"

"A search," he snarled.

But his nephews were somewhere out there. "I understood you had left. Forget something?"

The way everyone stared at him, he might have grown two heads.

Francis strode forward, grasped his arm, and pulled him toward the stairway.

Arthur was too surprised to object until the stairs were before him. He strained backward, but he held tight. "Let me go?"

Francis hauled him up the stairs and didn't stop until halfway down the passageway. "Which one?"

Realizing he referred to the room he had been given, he asked, "Why?"

With a curse, he dragged him forward and into a room that bore no resemblance to his hole in the wall. It was large, its appointments lavish-tapestries, a curtained bed, a beautifully carved trunk, chairs and tables, a fireplace, and a bathtub. Lady Isabella's room?

Francis released him and closed the door. "Where have you been?"

Arthur rubbed his arm where he had held him. "Is that a trick question?"

"Two days! Where have you been?"

Two days had passed since he had awakened from this dream? And he had truly been gone—and missed? "Let me get this straight. It's been two days since I left?"

His eyes hardened further. "Two days."

Francis did look scruffy. What a wild dream. He had assumed he would pick up where the dream left off. "This is strange."

"Where have you been? Lady Isabella had the entire garrison searching for you."

Arthur was intrigued by the dream's unexpected twist. "I imagine she's a bit hot under the collar, especially now that I'm back."

"From where?"

_Oh, about six hundred years from here—out of this dream and in the real world with its real problems._ "Believe me, you don't want to know."

He took hold of his shoulders. "I weary of this game. Now tell me!"

Arthur stared at him. _Calm down. Remember where you are—inside your mind._

"I am waiting." His fingers pressed into his flesh. "And not for much longer."

"Alas, I fear I do not remember." How was that for a bit of medieval lingo?

Francis wrenched him nearer. "You lie."

Curiously reckless, he tossed his head back. "You think I'm afraid of you? This is my dream, and I can make you disappear just as quickly as I make you appear." Not exactly true, as he had discovered the last time he had dreamed the dream, but it sounded good—at least, until he realized what he had revealed. He hadn't meant to let him in on the dream. However, it did the trick. One moment he was all friendly with Francis, the next a complete stranger.

Francis stepped back from the man and felt his anger drain. King Charles had sent a madman to care for his nephews, perhaps even to be his husband. How had he missed it? It wasn't as if he didn't know the face of madness. His own sister, Marion, wore it well, had thrice been betrothed and thrice been returned before vows bound her to some unfortunate whom no amount of riches could convince to take her to wife.

He frowned at another possibility. Lord Pierre had pleaded an injury when he asked about the attack. Was this just another lie? He returned his attention to him and saw a spark of triumph in his eyes. He thought he had won, and perhaps he had, for he still didn't know where he had taken himself to. Mad or not, he couldn't disappear so completely only to suddenly reappear. "You are not going to tell me where you have been?"

"I believe I already have?"

"A dream?"

Something—uncertainty?—flickered across Arthur's face. "That's right."

Fortunately for Arthur, Francis did not believe in witchcraft. "And in this dream, did you tell Lady Isabella that you and I are to wed by order of the king?"

His eyes widened, then he turned away, walked to the tub, and smoothed his hand over its rim. "So what's on the agenda for tomorrow?"

Francis glowered. Not only had he evaded his question, but tossed back another that made no sense. "Agenda? Of what do you speak?"

Arthur kept his back to him. "Where will your search for Abel and Philippe take you next?"

"How do you know I did not find them?"

"The book said…" He glanced around. "Never mind. You wouldn't understand."

Likely not, but he wished to know more about this book. "Tell me."

"As I said, this is a dream. It has no bearing on reality."

Mad. Very well, he would let it pass, but not on the matter of their marriage. "Did you tell Lady Isabella that you and I are to wed by order of the king?"

He stiffened.

Francis wished he would face him, for what could be read in one's face oft bore little resemblance to the spoken word.

"Actually," he said, "Isabella broached the subject. I merely confirmed it."

Not what he wished to hear. "Confirmed?"

"You know how Charles is." He looked over his shoulder. "You do, don't you?"

"I do."

Arthur turned and leaned back against the tub. "He gets these ideas in his head and there's no convincing him otherwise. Believe me, I'm not thrilled about it either."

He did believe him. He was no Isabella, or any number of men and women willing to look beyond a face scarred by pox and Charles' war with England as long as his coffers bulged—especially now that he controlled a Counthood. As an unwed Baron he had become accustomed to the attention of women and men, but now he found himself looked upon with greater interest. They sought him out, smiled at him, touched him with their eyes, those less coy with their hands. But not Pierre, a man used and discarded by at least one man, likely a dozen more. Why? Was it fear of him? The sins he put on him? Whatever it was, Arthur wanted nothing to do with him, and it vexed him.

He strode forward. "Why?"

Arthur looked up with the wariness of a deer caught in the open. Not that he wasn't quick to hide the vulnerability behind one of those 'thou dost not frighten me' faces of his. "Why what?"

"If there is to be a marriage, why are you not _thrilled_?"

He crossed his arms over his chest. "The answer is as plain as the nose on your face."

So it was, though no one had ever had the courage to speak such to him. "Am I truly such a beast, Lord Pierre?" He drew a hand down his scuffed jaw. "I assure you, I was not born one."

Arthur's eyes traced his scars, lingered over the one that cut his eyebrow. "That is not what I referred to." He sidestepped and crossed to the table beside Isabella's bed. "Everyone knows what you are—what you did, or will do."

"Then still you believe I arranged the attack on your baggage train."

"Didn't you?" He looked over his shoulder. "And what of your brother? What of his unfortunate _accident?_"

He was not the first, would not be the last. "You are right, his death was not an accident." He knew what he implied, saw the fear his words begat. "But as for your escort, what foolishness do you think me capable of that I would murder the king's men?"

"You did not wish Lord Pierre at Givry."

He had done it again, spoken of himself as if he were not present. "I did not, but murder? There are ways of ridding one's self of an unwanted guest other than by the spilling of blood."

"So how does one rid one's self of an unwanted _husband_?"

"Not by murdering a dozen worthy soldiers, I vow."

Arthur seemed to consider his words.

"And what ill do you believe I have yet to commit?" he asked.

Arthur lifted a hand mirror. "You know better than I."

He believed he intended his nephews harm. Again, he was not the first to suggest it, which was why Charles had yielded to the nobles who objected to the boys being placed under the guardianship of one with so much to gain from their misfortune. Thus, to appease those who had petitioned for guardianship, Charles sent Sir Gilbert to serve as a personal guard to the boys—a man whose only claim to knighthood seemed his possession of horse and armor. A man now turned abductor. Curse Charles for Beilschmidt! And Lord Pierre!

Anger was on Francis' tongue as he stepped towards Arthur, but it retreated when he saw the awe with which Arthur regarded his reflection. He touched the outside corner of one eye, a cheekbone, and his bottom lip, then tilted the mirror up and pulled strands of lightest hair through his fingers.

It unsettled Francis, serving as a sharp reminder of the madness he suspected. "Surely you have seen your reflection before, Lord Pierre."

"Of course," he murmured. "I just never put much store in my looks. Grades were always more important. It's where the scholarships are, you know." He looked over his shoulder. "No, I suppose you don't."

He wished he understood half of what Arthur said.

He looked back at his reflection. "You probably think I'm vain."

He did not. Were he, he would not have donned that tunic. Surely Isabella could have found something more fitting.

"You see, it's just that I've been…ill."

As in mad? "And now you are well?" He watched Arthur's face in the mirror.

"Until I awaken. I almost wish that I wouldn't." Lips touched with a smile, Arthur met his gaze in the mirror. "Of course, then I'd be stuck with you—just like Gil."

"Who is Gil?"

Arthur looked away and lowered the mirror. "Someone I once knew. He's dead."

A lover? Feeling a stab of emotion, Francis reminded himself that the man had been one of many. Still, there was something about the way Arthur said the name that made him wonder if he had felt something for him. Another stab. He didn't care. Arthur meant nothing to him. If Charles had sent him to be his husband—

Something occurred to him that had not before. "Where is the King's missive apprising me of this marriage?"

Arthur's eyes slid away. "He didn't send one. I was to tell you myself, and I would have if not for the attack."

Another lie? "'Tis unheard that the king would not inscribe a decree of marriage beneath his seal."

Arthur sank onto the edge of the bed. "He must have forgotten."

Would Charles ever have overlooked such an important detail? Years ago he would not have, but he was no longer young, and since the Queen's death, he was not always sensible. Still, Francis might have dismissed Pierre's claim, but as tale of the marriage had carried to Isabella, it was likely the truth. Again, he cursed Charles. Francis had not remained unwed all these years to now have a husband thrust upon him, especially one such as this, no matter how lovely he was.

He stepped in front of Arthur. "Know this, it 'tis true the king ordered this marriage, still I will not wed thee."

Arthur's shoulders eased. "You don't know what a relief that is. Not being a history buff, I was worried he might have the power to force the marriage."

Charles did. Surely he knew that. What he didn't know was that the king placed a high value on Francis' military stratagem, one that had earned his gratitude and forbearance in matters such as this.

"No need to make this any more of a nightmare than it already is," Pierre added.

It was like being struck in the groin. "A nightmare?"

"You know—it just wouldn't work out between us."

Francis knew better than to try to salve his man's pride, but this man pushed him past all sense. He pulled Arthur against him. "I need not speak vows to have what you so brazenly offer."

Arthur's mouth opened, closed, opened. "You mean you'll rape me?"

Francis frowned. "What has rape to do with this?"

Outrage sprang from his face. "What has…?" He exhaled a sound of disgust. "I warn you, if you try to force yourself on—"

"You speak of ravishment."

Arthur's eyes narrowed. "If it makes you feel better to call it that, fine, but I call it rape."

How odd. "In France, rape is an act of abduction, my lord. I assure you, this is not that."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Regardless, you are threatening to rape me."

"Again, you put sins on me. Were I to know you, Lord Pierre, I vow it would be so only were you willing."

"And _I_ vow I will never be willing. Now let me go."

Francis should have put him from him as if Arthur were the basest of beings, but he lowered his head and covered his mouth with his, just as he had wanted to do that morn by the stream when the last of night had shone on a face made vulnerable by sleep. Feeling Arthur soften, he drank in the taste of him, the scent… and felt the scrape of his teeth in time to pull back.

Anger flashed from his green eyes, he strained backward. "Try that again and they'll be calling you old lipless!"

Francis stared at him, the images conjured by "old lipless" making his mouth turn a smile he would not have expected to feel. Then he laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"You are funny, Lord Pierre, and I thank you. For it seems a very long time since I have truly laughed." He shook his head. "Mad or no, methinks I like you."

Arthur scowled. "Fine, now get your hands off me."

Francis released him. "I yield. _This_ time."

"Next time you won't?"

"Next time you will come willingly to me."

"Of all the arrogant—!"

"Lord Bonnefoy," a shrill voice sounded. "Lord Pierre!"

Following Pierre's wide-eyed gaze, Francis turned to where Isabella stood in the doorway. She had witnessed what she should not have, and was worse than displeased.

"I believe this concludes our little talk, Mr. Bonnefoy," Pierre said, his voice tight.

Francis looked back at him. "For the moment."

Arthur's lips parted as if to retort, but he shifted his jaw and stepped forward. "Might I impose on you, Lady Isabella, to point me to your kitchen? I'm suddenly very hungry."

"'Tis belowstairs, of course." Isabella growled.

Without another word, Pierre slipped past her into the passageway.

Francis knew Isabella's inner raging and felt a pang of regret for being the cause of it. She wanted him. Since her husband's death nearly a year past, she had sent one envoy after another to King Charles to suggest a marriage between her and the man to whom she had once been betrothed. And each time Charles denied her. "My apologies, Lady Isabella. I should not have trespassed on your private chamber."

"As well you know, 'tis yours for the duration of your stay."

So it was, by right of lordship over Cirque. He strode forward. "My thanks, but I do not require such trappings. Another of your chambers will serve as well."

"You will stay the night?"

"Aye, though only that. We ride at first light."

"Then I insist you take the lord's solar."

"Very well." The sooner he started acting the protector, the sooner he would gather the remainder of his brother's people to his side.

"I would not have believed you were so eager to bed the king's trollop," Isabella said, "Especially as your nephews have yet to be found."

Her words struck hard. Though his attention ought to be on Abel and Philippe, it was divided by a man of ill repute. A man he wanted. Why had he allowed Arthur to affect him when there were matters far more pressing? Because, deny it though he did, he knew Sir Gilbert would do the boys no harm? That the knight was merely misguided?

"Hear me, Francis." Isabella stepped near. "He is a whore."

Why did her words make him want to defend Pierre when he ought to agree, to fear what disease he might incur if he laid with one who had been with so many? The answers eluded him, making him feel like a boy of ten and two.

He narrowed his gaze. "If 'tis true he is to be my husband, 'twill be my duty to bed him—after Abel and Philippe are returned to Givry."

"Not if you do not wish it." Tears sparkled in her eyes. "Just as you do not wish to wed me, is that not right?"

Of course she knew, just as she had known of the king's decree that he would wed Pierre. "It is Lord Pierre the king has ordered me to wed."

"He is not a Lord!"

He couldn't argue that. Wherever Pierre came from, he could not be further from French nobility. "He is different, I grant."

She gripped his arm. "I tell you, he is not the one King Charles sent."

"Mayhap. Now I have important business to attend."

Her fingernails through his sleeve. "Some say he uses witchcraft."

It would surprise him if the whole castle was not abuzz with talk of his disappearance. It boded no good and was cause to be concerned about what such talk might reap. He removed Isabella's hand from him. "I had thought you more learned than to believe in witches and warlocks, my lady."

Desperation dug into her face. "Two days he has been gone from Cirque. Now, upon your return, he reappears as suddenly as he disappeared. What else is there to do but name him a warlock?"

"Lord Pierre is no more a warlock than you a witch," he said, though he was not entirely certain of it. "Now I must leave."

"You will see!"

He bowed curtly. "'Til supper, my lady." He started past her, halted. "Until we learn different, Lord Pierre _is_ a Lord, and the King would have him treated as such. Thus, I trust you will find a more seemly tunic to reflect his station."

Isabella's hands turned into fists. "He is too tall."

"I am sure your maids can add length to one of Arjan's tunics."

"Arjan's? Lord Pierre is smaller than he."

"Then your maid has a long night ahead of her."

Isabella's knuckles whitened. "I will see to it."


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

The dark one had returned.

Mouth so parched he could barely move his tongue, skin so chilled he knew no moment's peace from shivering. Pierre peered up through the grate at the one who had pronounced death upon him.

Then a miracle. Rain. It splashed him, left him gasping. But he was allowed only one swallow before it slid over his skin and seeped into the ground. Not rain. Wine. Bitter, but so very wet.

Though hope leapt within him, he drew on his remaining sanity to push it down. He was playing with him, just as he had done the last time he had come. How long had it been? Days? A week? More?

"Lord Pierre, will you do as I say?"

For what? Another promise broken? However, as much as he longed to deny him, survival whispered that perhaps there would be an opportunity in what he asked of him. _Please, let there be a way out._

He unstuck his tongue. "Aye, anything." Through thoughts chased with fog, he heard a scrape and click, then the grate was raised.

"Get out!"

It was more than he dared hope. Trembling, he turned onto his belly and leveled up on arms that threatened to fail him. When his head was up and out, he looked to the dimly lit cell above the oubliette.

"Make haste!"

He dragged himself from the pit onto the cold stone floor and got a knee beneath him, but could go no further. "I… don't think I can."

"Then you are of no use to me." A booted foot struck his ribs, knocking him back toward the oubliette.

"Nay!" From somewhere, he found the strength to crawl clear of the death pit. "Pray, give me but a moment."

"Now!"

He stumbled to his feet, wove, nearly collapsed.

The sharp point of steel pressed between his shoulder blades. "Death will take you sooner do you think to escape me. Understand?"

He nodded.

The man thrust something into his arms. "Don that."

Struggling to keep his knees from buckling, he worked the mantle around his shoulders.

The dark one whipped the hood over his head. "Now walk."

Feeling fifty years atop his twenty-five, he shuffled forward and was prodded out of the cell, through corridors so dimly lit there seemed no end to them, past a guard who hastened to look elsewhere, and up a tightly-turned stairway upon which he stumbled and fell twice. Still the dark one pressed him onward. Not until the third landing did the agonizing climb end. He pushed him from the stairs to a window and threw open the shutter.

Light poured in, so bright Pierre clapped a hand over his eyes.

"Look!"

"I have been too long without light."

Surprisingly, the man allowed Pierre's eyes to grow accustomed until he could squint to peer out the window that afforded a view of the outer bailey of a castle.

Nay, not bright at all, but an overcast day that had earlier poured enough rain to cause the inner moat to flood its bank and mire the ground so that those who negotiated it were muddied.

His captor edged beside him, was silent as if searching for something.

Stealing a sidelong glance, Pierre saw his face was hidden by his hood. How was he to escape him when he was scarce able to stand and the man held a dagger at his neck? It would take little effort to leave Pierre convulsing in a pool of blood.

Though the likelihood of escape was so far out of his grasp it was not worth the effort of thought, Pierre could not resign himself to death. He had to try to escape, and if he died, better here than left to rot in a grated coffin.

"There he is," the dark one said. "Before the smithy."

The one the man had brought him to see? Pierre put his hands to the sill and leaned forward. Beneath his touch, a stone shifted as he searched out the one of whom he spoke.

Light hair atop the head of a man in a homespun tunic, the man stood in profile before the smithy's shop. Handsome, in spite of his garment, and possibly of some import considering the knight who followed him closely.

"Who is he?" his captor asked.

He was supposed to know? Either he had lost more of his mind than he realized, or the man discoursing with the blacksmith was the stranger he appeared to be.

"Your servant?"

Hardly. André was not yet twenty, short and round, with a head full of messy flaxen hair that was constantly falling from her head—as far from this man as a duck was from a swan.

Pierre started to disavow the man, but it occurred to him it would mean his return to the oubliette. And death. "Why do you wish to know?"

He heard the man's sharply indrawn breath, felt the dagger's prick.

"Tell me!"

_Almighty God, give me courage._ "Who does he…" He tried to wet his cracked lips with the scant saliva in his mouth. "…say he is?"

Pain. The trickle of blood.

"_I_ ask the questions."

"And I… will answer them, but only if you tell me what _I_ wish to know." Would he cut his throat, end it all here?

The dagger quivered against his skin, promising a speedy end, but that was not all bad considering what awaited him below.

However, the dark one needed him—for the moment. "That, Lord Pierre, is Lord Pierre."

Pierre jerked his head around, once more felt the stone shift beneath his hands. "What say you?"

"'Tis as the man claims."

Why? And how? Had the man been party to the attack on the king's men?

"Now give me the answer I seek."

If he gave it, all would be over. "First, a drink of wine." He guessed he had a skin on his belt.

More pain. More blood. "After you have answered me."

He should not have left court. Should have refused his father as he ad wanted to when he told him of his plan to wed him to Bonnefoy. "The wine, else be done with me now and never know what you desire."

The man spewed curses that were so vulgar they called to mind the one who had played at being Pierre's father before he escaped him to go in search of revenge on the king who had planted him in his mother's belly.

"I weary of you," the dark one said.

Pierre looked to the bailey and saw that the one who had taken his name had moved on to the woodworker's shop. "I will die whether or not I tell you. I but ask for a drink to ease my passing."

As the dagger slackened against his neck, Pierre turned his head and watched the dark one search inside his mantle. He could almost taste the wine, feel it wet his dry throat, smell—

Nay! As much as he longed to drink his fill, life was staring him in the face. But how to overpower him? Beneath his convulsing hands, the loose stone grated, answering him as clearly as if it had spoken in his ear.

He did not know how he was able to move so quickly, to swing the stone, to find his mark, but his captor dropped to his feet. Breath caught in his throat, he marveled at how easy it had been and how still the man lay. Was he dead? He shuddered, told himself it was no worse than a murderer deserved and what mattered was that his nightmare was over. Or was it? He could not simply walk out of here, wherever he was, for he did not know friend from foe. He took his first breath since his felling his captor and panic rushed in with it.

_Calm yourself! Think!_

He considered the form at his feet. Would he recognize the face beneath the hood? If so, it might help him understand why he had been delivered to this hell. He bent and reached, onlt to snatch his hand back for fear of being seized.

_Run. Now!_

He dropped the stone and, as he skirted the dark one, caught a glint of steel near the stairway. It was the dagger that had flown from his captor's hand when he struck him. He lurched forward, retrieved the weapon he prayed he would not have to use, and started down the stairs.

Behind, the dark one groaned.

Blood thrummed in Pierre's ears as he plunged down the steps. _Please, God, deliver me and ever I will do thy bidding_. Now if only he would forgive him the sin he had thought to commit in the name of revenge.

Arthur stared at the tower that stood watch over the outer bailey. Nothing. He put a hand to his neck. He could have been sure someone was watching him.

_Just my imagination_.

He looked back to the man who turned a piece of wood into a table leg. Interesting stuff. He couldn't begin to guess from where he had culled such knowledge.

Where to now? The huge cylinder that looked like a silo? The stables? The small building from which came the sound of birds? He decided on the latter as a means to delay his return to the keep—anything to avoid Francis and what had happened between them an hour earlier.

Though he tried to slam the door on the incident, images pushed through. He remembered his hands on him, his muscled chest against his, the brush of his hair on his cheek, the graze of the small stubble on the man's face when he kissed him. He had resisted, but more because he feared his promise that he would willingly give himself to him. He didn't believe it, but never had he felt anything quite like what he did with him—not even with Alfred, his first and only love.

Why? Nervous? Out of his element? Needless to say, Francis had thrown him for a loop when he called him on the marriage thing. He had been so certain his talk with Lady Isabella wouldn't come back to haunt him.

"Merely confirmed it," he muttered the words he had spoken to Francis.

Then there was his reflection. The dream had restored his health, but still his image was unexpected. It was such a contrast to the last time he had stood before a mirror that it had been like running into a long lost friend. He had missed himself.

Was this behind his reaction to Francis? Had he simply been off-kilter? There seemed only one answer: he was warped to feel attraction for a man like him. For all of his training in psychology, this self-analysis thing was getting him nowhere. He needed his head examined by an objective—

_ This is not reality_. It was a dream, and though he had been appalled when he put Francis straight on the matter, it had been liberating. As long as he remembered this for what it was, he had nothing to fear.

He stepped toward the bird building, and the shadow that crossed his reminded him of the one who dogged his steps since he had left the keep—Sir Marcel who had allowed him to fall from his horse. And he looked no worse for whatever punishment Francis had dealt. In spite of Arthur's annoyance at being followed, there was relief in that. Had Francis given the knight this assignment as a chance for the man to redeem himself?

He sidestepped a mud puddle that evidenced the thunderstorm that had been all the talk in Lady Isabella's cavernous kitchen. Of course, Arthur had the impression that prior to his entrance, the talk had been of his disappearance from Cirque. And more than once he had heard "warlock" whispered about.

Behind, he heard the squelch of the knight's boots, then muttered curses. Obviously, Sir Marcel had been too intent on him to notice the mud.

Arthur turned to the thirty-something year old knight. "If you must follow me, can you at least make yourself useful?"

He scowled, causing his weathered countenance to age.

"Tell me about this place. What is it?"

He drew alongside him. "A dovecote, my lord. You do not know?"

"We don't have them where I come from."

"It is a place for doves—pigeons."

Arthur stopped before a slatted window set high in the wall. "In other words, a giant birdhouse."

It looked as if Marcel might smile. "Aye, that would be it."

Arthur put a hand on the window ledge and peered at row upon row of birds. Numbering perhaps one hundred, they were mottled gray with the exception of a dozen white. "What are they for?"

"Their dung is of benefit to the crops, but mostly they are for the pot. And for the hawks. The great birds are especially fond of doves."

Wishing he hadn't asked, Arthur settled back on his heels. He conjured a vision of Lady Isabella and her hooded bird, imagined the woman serving up a sweet dove to her pet.

"Have you never eaten pigeon, my lord?"

Hadn't and wouldn't, not even in a dream. "No."

"Fair tasty they are. As Lord Bonnefoy has returned, Lady Isabella's cooks will likely bring doves to the high table this eve. You must try some."

"Tell me about Lady Isabella's hawk. Why are its eyes covered?"

"To keep it calm. Know you naught of hawking, my lord?

"Another area of my education sorely neglected."

Marcel's puzzlement deepened. "'Tis strange you would not have been introduced to hawking at court. The king delights in falconry and keeps the finest mews."

"That he does." He hoped he wasn't digging himself in too deep. "It's just that there was always something better to do."

The knight's gaze turned knowing and he grinned.

Heat flooded Arthur's face. Since Lord Pierre's reputation as serviceman to the king preceded him, Sir Marcel had taken his words to mean he had been too busy romping around the bedroom to notice something as inconsequential as a hawk.

"Would you like to see Lady Isabella's mews?" he asked, his tone verging on friendly.

"All right." Arthur followed him to a long wooden shed.

"The mews," he said. "If the falconer is around, he will tell you all you wish to know about hawking."

It turned out to be interesting. Best of all, it further delayed Arthur's next meeting with Francis.

Laughter.

Francis arrested his progress across the hall and turned to catch the entrance of Lord Pierre accompanied by Sir Marcel. No manner of peasant wear could lessen the brilliance that shone from Pierre's face, just as no manner of finery could make him glow brighter. It was all Pierre. No mockery, no contempt, no anger, just laughter. And it returned him to the taste of his mouth.

How had Sir Marcel made him laugh? And what of the knight's aversion for the lord who had squirmed atop his horse? Was it his comeliness that put a smile on lips that rare turned, that made him forget what all other could not—Pierre's disappearance for which there seemed no explanation other than that he was a warlock?

Francis cursed himself for the stink of jealousy that swirled around him. Pierre was a harlot, adept at winning men and women to him. Likely, he hoped to seduce the knight and make him an ally.

"Sir Marcel," Francis called.

The man's smile fell. For a moment looking as if caught with his braies down, he slid his gaze past the others who gathered for supper and inclined his head. "Lord Bonnefoy."

"I trust you carried out my instructions."

"Aye, my lord. Never did the man go from my sight. He but walked the outer bailey." 

Francis had known Pierre would not like being followed but could not risk losing him again. Catching sight of him over Sir Marcel's shoulder, he said, "Take your leave, sir Marcel."

"If it pleases you, my lord, I can—"

"Your leave."

The knight turned toward the tables.

Expecting Pierre to avoid him, Francis was surprised when he came toward him.

"You had a pleasant walk?" he asked.

His smile was less brilliant than when laughter had earlier put it on his lips. "I did, though I was peeved to discover you had put a tail on me."

Peeved? And what was this about a tail? "A tail?"

"Yes, a…" He made a face. "You had Sir Marcel follow me."

"To ensure you did not disappear again."

"Oh, I will. But next time I won't be coming back."

Francis studied his defiant countenance, wondered if his plans included Sir Marcel whose loyalty there had never been any reason to question—unlike some of the men who had served his deceased brother. "I thank you for the warning, Lord Pierre. I shall plan accordingly."

He didn't look concerned, which concerned Francis all the more.

He gripped his elbow, "To supper."

Isabella was seated at the high table, her hooded hawk on its perch at her back, when Francis handed Pierre into the chair beside the one reserved for the lord and lowered himself.

With scrapes and screeches, grunts and clearings of throats, those at the lesser tables settled in for the meal as best they could with what they feared was a warlock among them.

'My lord," said one of two varlets who appeared at Francis' side.

Francis placed his hand over the basin held by the first, turned his palms up as water was poured over them, and held them out to be dried by the second varlet. When they moved on to Pierre, Francis envied the smile he gifted the young men as they washed and dried his hands.

Pierre met Francis' gaze, held up his hands, and turned them front to back. "Just when I was beginning to think you were all uncivilized."

Uncivilized? Pierre, who knew so little of propriety he more often behaved as if he were a villain, should speak thus? As comely as Pierre was, and no matter his play between the sheets, it was no wonder Charles had set him aside.

"Tell me of this Oz you come from," Francis invited.

Apprehension flashed across his face and was gone. Eyes sparkling, lips parting to reveal even white teeth, he sat back in his chair. "There's this girl named Dorothy. She and her little dog, Toto, live in Kansas over in America, which everyone knows is tornado alley—" He wrinkled his nose. "No, you don't know. Anyway, a tornado sweeps up Dorothy's house and lands her and Toto in Oz, a bizarre place populated with munchkins."

Francis felt as if felled by a quintain. Munchkins, tornadoes, a dog named Toto, and who was this Dorothy? It was the stuff of too much ale.

"The house lands on the Wicked Witch of the East," Pierre continued, "and kills the hag."

Francis could not believe he would speak thus, especially since so many believed him to be a warlock.

"East's sister, West, isn't too happy with Dorothy." He swept his hands up. "Fortunately, Glenda the good witch is on the scene—"

He caught one of Pierre's hands and pulled him near. "Quiet, man!"

"What?"

"Speak no more of this… Oz. Do you, you may find yourself staked and burned for being of evil magic yourself."

Pierre tugged at his hand. "What is this? Salem?"

"This is France, where those condemned for using witchcraft are burned."

He scoffed. "Uncivilized, just as I thought."

"Lord Pierre!"

The derision cleared from his face. "Do I detect concern, Mr. Bonnefoy? I would have laid odds you wouldn't object too loudly to me being burned at the stake."

Just as he believed him responsible for the attack on his baggage train. Still, it _was_ curious that he should concern himself over his well-being. Forget that he stirred longing in him. Forget the smiles he so easily bestowed on others. It had everything to do with the king. If anything untoward happened to him, he would answer to Charles.

He arched his scarred eyebrow. "Methinks you would burn most bright, my lord. But then, 'twould be upon me to explain to King Charles what became of his…" He slid his gaze from Pierre's lips to his long neck. "…to explain what became of you."

"Hmm. Methinks thou protests overly much."

It was the first time he sounded remotely of the time period.

"Remember," he said, "_you _kissed _me_."

Music sounded from the gallery, heralding the entrance of servants bearing platters. Francis shot Pierre a look of warning then released him and affected an interest in the victuals, all of which were so lavish they reminded him of his long and dreary days at court. Lady Isabella had put forth quite an effort.

He looked to Isabella and saw she watched him. How much of his conversation with Pierre had she overheard? No, she wasn't watching him. She stared through him, eyes narrowed against the pain of one of her headaches. She had told him that, in her youth, she had suffered them often, sometimes so greatly she could bear only darkness, but he had thought they were resolved. Remorseful at having been curt with her earlier, he said, "'Tis a fine table, my lady."

"For a fine lord." Her smile was hopeful. "Will you share a plate with me?"

He would have to disappoint her further. "If not for my betrothed, I would. But I thank you for the offer."

"Of course." She turned to her cousin.

As if unaware of Isabella's attention, Sir Arjan lifted his tankard, quaffed it, set it down with a thud, and slumped on an upturned palm. He was likely full up in his cups, the ale he had downed only a small portion of what he must have partaken.

Lady Isabella's hand on Arjan's sleeve brought his head around so fast his brimmed hat slipped down over one eye. She leaned near, straightened his hat, and whispered something. Though Francis was not usually one to listen in on others' conversations, it unsettled him.

"Oh, my," Lord Pierre gasped.

Francis found his gaze held by an enormous platter that two squires set before them. On it was a hoofed leg of stag.

Pierre looked at Francis, his taunting self-assurance that had turned him from Francis minutes earlier reduced to apprehension. "Is that—"

"Venison."

"Bambi?"

Was that what they called it in Oz?

The carver laid a thick slice of the steaming meat across the silver plate before Francis. "My lord."

Francis cut a piece of venison and offered it to Pierre on the point of his meat dagger.

He held up a hand. "I won't have that on my conscience."

What was he talking about? If it had something to do with his witches, warlocks, and magic, he would put a swift end to it. "I vow you will like it. 'Tis fresh—taken this day on our return to Cirque."

He shook his head. "Fish, chicken, pizza, an occasional hamburger, but never Bambi."

Francis frowned. "You speak most peculiar, Lord Pierre."

"And you don't?"

He carried the venison to his mouth and enjoyed every chew of it. "Delicious. Mayhap the next course will be more to your liking."

Platters came and went, but most were so foreign to Arthur they held little appeal: lamprey—whatever it was, peacock—worse than doves, wild boar—gamey. Nearly as bad, Bonnefoy seemed determined to feed him, time and again thrusting his blade at him with some morsel on it. Mostly, he refused, and the gnawing of his stomach increased.

Finally, a pie was placed between him and Francis. Chicken pot pie? Fortunately, it was every bit as delicious as its scent promised.

"'Tis to your liking?" Francis asked.

He met his blue gaze. _Nice eyes, especially when they're not glaring_. "Very much."

He stabbed a piece of chicken and offered his dagger. "'tis the last real food you will likely see for some days."

"Oh?"

"Come the morrow, we ride again, and this time you go with me."

"You're no longer worried I might slow you down?"

"You shall ride with me."

Lovely. Arthur plucked the chicken from his dagger and popped it in his mouth.

The fare that followed was less appealing, with the exception of apple tarts that were so tasty Arthur ate three.

When an end to the meal was called, Sir Arjan was the first to his feet, standing so quickly and crookedly it was impossible to miss him. With tell-tale weaving, he crossed the hall and staggered outside into the gathering darkness. Probably to vomit, Arthur guessed, and tomorrow there would be a hangover to deal with.

As he stepped from the dais, he glanced behind and saw that Francis' and Lady Isdabella's heads were bent toward one another.

"Lord Pierre?" Arjan's servant, Eric approached.

"Yes?"

"The lady has bid me to fit you with cloth more suited to your size."

So Francis didn't like him in sackcloth. It was almost enough to make him reject the man's offer. He scratched his thigh. "I'd appreciate that, especially if the fabric isn't as prickly as this."

"I am to alter one of Sir Arjan's tunics."

And Isabella was probably turning cartwheels over that. "Lead the way."

"In truth," Eric said as he and Arthur neared the stairs, "'tis more likely fleas that bother you than the servants' homespun."

Arthur halted and stared down the shapeless garment.

"My lord?"

If he had been alone, he would have ripped the tunic off. Gritting his teeth, he met Eric's questioning gaze. "I'm right behind you."


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

Eighteen buckets. From the doorway of his room, Arthur counted them, starting with the first that arrived amid the giggles of two maids to the last lugged down the corridor amid grunts and a good deal of slopping.

A hot, steaming, up-to-your-neck bath. But it wasn't for him. It was for the woman behind door number one.

Arthur groaned. What he wouldn't do for a quick dip, having once more been reduced to a basin of tepid water and a towel hardly big enough to blow his nose on. He scratched his midriff and gazed longingly at the door behind which Isabella basked. Might he—?

_In your dreams. _In the next instant, he chuckled. It _was_ his dream. He looked down at the nightgown-ish garment that was all he had to wear until alterations to Arjan's plum-colored coat and dark green tunic were completed. Remembering the fitting that had taken place over an hour and seen him stuck twice, Arthur thanked his stars it was over. Though the garments were most likely not the best (by Isabella's request no doubt) they would be a huge improvement over Eric's itchy clothes.

Forgetting his attire, Arthur padded barefoot down the corridor. As he neared, he heard the sound of lapping water, a crackling fire, and voices—one of them a man's. It wasn't possible to identify Francis from that bit of a muffle, but something told him it was him. And the tinkling laughter had to belong to Isabella.

An emotion Arthur tried to fob off as disgust stirred, then churned when the woman's voice sounded through the door. Her words were unintelligible, but there was no mistaking Francis' reply: "Aye."

In spite of everything Arthur held against Francis, his green-eyed monster appeared. Engaged to him and playing footsie with _that_ woman! He curled his toes in the water puddle courtesy of the bone-wary maids and pushed the door inward. A glimpse of the room, bathed in firelight, was all he was afforded before a hand clamped around his arm and spun him back against a wall of muscle.

Arthur's gasp was met by light on steel and a razor-sharp edge at his throat.

"You are fortunate to yet have your pretty head on your shoulders, my lord," Francis said.

Slowly, he looked around into his face. "I couldn't agree more. Now let me go."

Where there had been anger, amusement crept. "You are certain 'tis what you wish?"

"Of course I am."

Francis lowered his dagger, released him, and stepped back.

Touching his neck where the blade had worked its threat, Arthur turned to him. "Oh!" He averted his gaze but not before every muscle and sinew was imprinted on his memory. Clenching his hands, he searched out Isabella who knelt beside the tub.

How smug she looked, but at least she was clothed. A washcloth in her lap, soap in her hand, face flushed, she regarded Arthur.

"Well isn't this cozy?" Arthur spoke before he could get a grip on emotions he had no reason to feel.

"Why are you listening at doors, Lord Pierre?" Francis asked as he stepped around him.

Again, he redirected his gaze and peripherally saw him step into the tub.

"Lord Pierre?" Francis prompted.

Braving the sight of Francis' head and shoulders above the rim, Arthur said, "I was not listening at the door."

"Then for what did you come to Lady Isabella's chamber in the dark of night?"

Beginning to hum, that woman rose to her knees and soaped Francis' broad shoulders.

Arthur felt his jaw muscles cramp. "Don't you think that's more a question for you than me, Mr. Bonnefoy?"

"I am bathing."

"And I suppose you need help doing that?"

Francis looked genuinely puzzled.

Arthur stepped forward. "I'd like to speak to you. Alone."

He sank more deeply into the warmth that would have incited Arthur's envy if he wasn't so occupied with this other emotion. Resting his neck on the rim, Francis closed his eyes. "You think that would be seemly? After all, we are not yet wed."

_He_ played house with Isabella and talked of being seemly! "Alone," Arthur said again.

As if Francis had no intention of sending Isabella away, he let the silence ride on the melody purring from Isabella.

Arthur tried to bring himself back to earth to pound into his head that none of this was real, but his insides knotted further. If ever there was an ugly emotion, it had to be jealousy, to which he had rarely been moved. He couldn't possibly be right in the head.

"Leave us, Lady Isabella," Francis said.

Isabella drew a sharp breath. "'Twould be most improper, Lord Bonnefoy."

"Leave us.

"Betrothed or not, if Lord Pierre does not guard his reputation—"

"I do not believe he concerns himself with such things, do you?" He looked to Arthur and swept his gaze down him.

Arthur may be wearing night clothes, but Francis was the one parading around naked.

Isabella stood. "In that you are right." She dropped the washcloth to the floor. "I will return shortly and wash your hair."

"Nay"—Francis' eyes never left Arthur—"'twill not be necessary. Good eve."

Anger mottling Isabella's lovely face, she brushed past Arthur and slammed the door behind her.

"We are alone." Francis said.

"Yes, I…" Arthur pushed his shoulders back. "What are you doing in Lady Isabella's room?"

Francis sat up, exposing biceps and chest played by firelight. "You behave as if cuckolded."

"As if what?"

Francis grinned. "Surely you do not think I was up the lady's skirts?"

_That_ he understood. "What else am I supposed to think when you prance around naked as a jay bird?"

"Naked as a what?"

"As in nude…bare…naked!"

"That I am, but 'tis how I prefer my baths."

Francis was laughing at him. He knew it as surely as if he had thrown back his hand and loosed the offensive sound.

"You have been in Paris how long, Lord Pierre?"

"Long enough."

"Obviously not. Had you been, you would know 'tis not uncommon for the lady of the castle to tend her guest's bath."

"So Lady Isabella was merely soaping you up, and that's okay?"

"How do you do it in Oz?"

"As our men are able-bodied, they soap and scrub themselves."

"Methinks I would not like this Oz."

"No, you wouldn't."

He nodded. "Now you."

"What?"

"I have told you my reasons for being here. I would know yours."

"I heard the maids bringing water for the bath and thought…." He sighed. "It's been a while since I had a bath and—"

"You wished to share mine."

"No! It wasn't until I heard your voice that I realized you were in here."

"You intended to ask Lady Isabella to allow you to bathe when she finished?"

"Not my idea of a nice bath, but better than a basin."

Francis crooked a finger. "Come, finish that from which you took Lady Isabella."

Arthur dropped back a step. "I told you, we don't do that where I'm from."

Francis smiled, the distance and shadows transforming his flawed face into borderline handsome. "You do not bathe your guests, but you do magic and warlocks and witches."

"Only in the movies."

"The movies?"

Arthur waved a hand. "Just more of my jibber jabber."

Francis reached over the tub, retrieved the soap, and held it out to Arthur.

Arthur shook his head. "It's time I left."

"And miss your bath?"

The bait was tempting, but the hook of it was Francis. "In other words, I soap your back, you soap mine?"

Francis laughed. "I delight in thy voice, Lord Pierre. Your expressions are so… true." He motioned him forward. "If 'tis what you wish, I shall soap your back, but after you soap mine."

"I don't think so."

"Why not? 'Twill be as I shall ask of you when we are wed— the first of many baths you shall attend."

True, but—No, not true. Even if this were real, and it couldn't be, Arthur was fairly certain he was not Lord Pierre. Also, what about Francis' change of heart? "Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you say you had no intention of marrying me?"

Something leapt in Francis' eyes. Was it possible he, too, was becoming enmeshed in this crazy dream of Arthur's?

"I said it," Francis admitted, all humor gone, "and I meant it. Now, if you wish a bath that is passing warm, you will assist me in completing my ablutions."

As if on cue, a stinger of an itch travelled down Arthur's thigh. Imaginary, he told himself, but it required scratching. Blast! What was a little soaping compared to a long soak that would soon turn cold if he continued to hem and haw? "All right." He stepped to the tub.

Francis' fingers brushed Arthur's palm as he passed the soap to him, feeling like a caress when it was nothing of the sort.

He knelt beside the tub. "Ready?"

Francis sat forward.

Arthur wet the soap and lifted it to his back. And froze. When Francis had walked naked in front of him, he had kept his gaze low. Thus, he hadn't seen the thin scars crossing Francis' back in such abundance they screamed of the pain he had surely endured. Had someone taken a whip to him?

Arthur touched a scar on Francis' shoulder. Though he stiffened, Arthur traced the puckered flesh downward, across his spine, and to the ribs opposite. "Who did this?"

Francis looked over his shoulder and in a harsh voice, said, "The water cools."

Arthur shouldn't care since he probably deserved every lash, but he couldn't help himself. "Who?"

"'Twas war."

No name to the hand that had disfigured him. Excepting Arthur's final meeting with Gilbert, the war veteran had viewed his life-altering ordeal similarly—holding it to him, referring to all he had witnessed and all that had been done to him by the universal label of "war".

"I'm sorry," Arthur said.

Francis' lids narrowed. "Are you?"

"War is ugly." Arthur saw again Gilbert in his wheelchair. "So many dead. So many crippled. I think those who survive must suffer more, don't you?"

"How know you of war, Lord Pierre?"

"I don't, really. All I know is what I've been told, the little I read in school, and what I've seen on tel-" he shook his head. "Never mind." Arthur pulled his finger from Francis' scarred flesh. "I understand you were a military advisor during the "Hundred Years War." At least, that was what Gilbert's book said."

"During the what?"

"The Hundred… or was it The Thousand?" He shrugged. "Maybe you call it something else."

"You speak of the war with England?"

"I think that's it."

"Why would one call it the Hundred Years War?"

"Because it lasted that long?"

"'Tis not over with, and though war is not new to France and England, this one is little more than thirty years aged."

Amazing how quickly an innocent remark hung him. "Maybe it just seems like a hundred." Arthur looked down. "Where did the soap go?"

Francis turned so suddenly the water spilled over the tub and wet the front of Arthur's night clothes. He captured Arthur's wrist. "Are you a warlock?"

Arthur tugged at his hand. "Surely you don't believe in warlocks."

"I do not. Just as I do not believe this is a dream as you claim."

"Then why ask if I'm a warlock?"

Francis drew him forward until his face was inches from the other. "That I might know if I am wrong in believing as I do."

Never would Arthur have thought Francis could be moved from one side of the fence to the other. It didn't fit the picture of him drawn by the author of _The Sins of the Count of Givry_. But dreams were like that.

"I'm not a warlock, but this _is_ a dream. You are not real. This room is not real. The fire is not real. None of it is real."

Francis' eyes lowered to Arthur's mouth. "None of it?"

Reminded of their earlier encounter in this very room, Arthur searched for an anchor and found it in his own words. "So call me mad. Mad as a hatter, a loon, a nut case. Happy?"

Francis released Arthur's wrist and laid a hand to his throat instead, causing water to trickle from his skin to Arthur's. "Be you a dream or a warlock, Lord Pierre, your blood rushes at my touch."

"You did tell me to fear you."

Francis' smile reached his eyes. He was hardly handsome, but when he smiled like that…

"Nay," he murmured, "'tis not fear that makes your heart beat so," He slid his hand to the back of Arthur's neck and urged him nearer. "Put your mouth to mine, Pierre."

Arthur knew he should pull away, but something held him. He felt a strange longing to feel Francis, a precarious tug, a stirring from out of the depths of his illness. It was a long time since he had been aware of his body in ways other than the toll taken by chemotherapy and radiation, but as welcome as the feelings were, they were dangerous. "I can't."

"You want to."

"No, I don't. I know who you are, what you did—or are going to do. I think."

"You _think_?" Francis' voice tightened.

Arthur closed his eyes and rued the mess he had made of himself,

"I am not who you believe me to be, Pierre, and though you deny it, you know 'tis true."

Arthur lifted his lids and saw that though Francis' face remained near, what had shone so brightly from his eyes was gone. "I hope I'm wrong."

Francis released him and stood. "My towel."

Keeping his eyes low, he said, "What about your bath, I didn't—"

"Had you, I would have had your mouth. And more. Now the towel."

Arthur swept it from the stool. Francis' clothes lay beneath, and atop them a gold medallion suspended from a chain. Arthur's heart almost stopped. However, it was not a two-headed wyvern stamped into the metal, but a curled feather topped by a crown,

"I wait, Lord Pierre."

Arthur reached the towel to him. "I was admiring your… medallion. It's beautiful."

Francis wiped himself down and stepped from the tub.

Glimpsing muscled calves, Arthur returned his attention to the medallion. "What does this mean?" He touched the curled feather.

"You do not recognize the knig's markings?"

Of course he didn't. "Well, yes, I'm just curious as to why you have a medallion bearing them."

Francis reached around him and lifted the medallion by its chain. As it was carried past him, it spun to reveal identical markings on the reverse. "'Twas given to me in appreciation for the retaking of lands in England. I wear it to remind me of the mistakes I made."

Did he refer to his scarred back? Arthur lifted his face and was grateful Francis had wrapped the towel around his hips. Higher, his gaze awaited Arthur's and allowed a glimpse of what might be pain. He strode toward the bed. "Make haste, Lord Pierre, the water cools."

"I won't be long."

Francis tossed the covers back and laid down as if to stay. "Take however long you require. 'Twill not disturb me."

Arthur took a step toward the bed. "Excuse me, but unlike you medieval people, we in… Oz, regard bathing as a private act."

Francis plumped a pillow. "Unless you ask it, you need not fear I shall tend you."

As if he would! "You're going to lie there while I—?"

"I am going to sleep. Dawn comes soon and with it a long ride."

"You're sleeping in Isabella's room?"

"I am." Francis whipped a sheet over his lower half and closed his eyes. "Good eve."

What of Lady Isabella? As soon as Arthur left, would the woman crawl into bed with him?

Arthur turned to the bath. As much as he longed to absorb the last of its heat and wash away whatever vermin crawled his skin, it was impossible to ignore Francis. Or was it? He glanced over his shoulder. Francis' eyes remained closed.

To bathe or not to bathe, that was the question. Or was it to itch or not to itch? He glanced around to ensure Francis wasn't watching, snatched up the hem of the horrible night clothing, pulled it over his head, and tossed it to the ground. As he reached to his makeshift underwear, he stilled. They would just have to get wet.

He lowered into the tub and stole another peek at Francis whose chest rose and fell evenly. Relieved, he leaned back and melted up to his chin in water. Forget that it no longer passed for hot and was cloudy. It was a bath.

He fished around for the soap, found a sliver, and soaped himself from toes to scalp. Following a quick dunk to rinse the soap from his hair, he decided a few more minutes couldn't hurt and settled back.

He studied the fireplace. Red and gold leapt, crackled, popped, and warmed his face. He relaxed further and mused how quickly something taken for granted attained luxury status. Even cold, he reveled in the feel of the water and its soapy scent that mingled with that of the man who had first tested its depths.

He glanced at the bed on which Francis was stretched. As the fire had waned, deepening the shadows around the room, he could no longer make out his features.

Arthur peered over the edge of the tub. No towel, Francis having worn it away. All that was left to him was the nightgown type thing. Hating that, as squeaky clean as he was, he had to put that thing back on, he grabbed it. Holding it before him, he stood and, when Francis didn't stir, stepped from the tub.

* * *

Francis watched Pierre as he had done the past half hour and cursed himself for things never before felt. Not that he knew what they were, so unrecognizable were they. Desire? Aye, he knew that well enough, but it was more.

How had this warlock, this mad man, slipped past his defenses? His thoughts ought to be trained on rooting out Abel and Philippe's abductor, not Lord Pierre whose ivory shoulders glowed in the firelight, night clothes clasped to his chest.

He watched Pierre struggle to make both ends of the garment meet at his back without donning it. Did he fear his gaze? When he first lay down, sleep had been his aim, but the lapping water and Pierre's sighs of contentment had put an end to that. As the shadows settled around the bed, he had watched openly. Obviously, he suspected as much, vainly playing at modesty unbecoming a leman.

A dream, he called this, so sure of it he dared where few dared and pressed Francis past all patience. How he wearied of Pierre's accusations, his belief he would do his nephews harm. Yet for all that, Francis had taken Pierre's mouth to his own. He was a fool to lie awake when he could be sleeping, a fool to seek a glimpse of eyes that pierced him each time he looked into them.

Mayhap that was it—Pierre's eyes. There was a great knowing in them, especially when he spoke of what was to be. It was as if he saw the morrow and knew its secrets. Those eyes made him question himself and his beliefs, so convincingly he entertained the possibility of magic. But if not a warlock, how else to explain Pierre? A dream, Pierre said, but possible only if this was _Francis'_ dream. And he knew it was not. Even mad, as Pierre acceded, that was not all of it.

Pierre started toward the door, then turned and approached the bed.

Vaguely aware he was in need of breath, Francis watched.

Pierre halted alongside him and peered into the heavy shadows thrown by the bed curtains.

Confident Pierre could not make out his features, Francis slowly filled his lungs with the scent of him that was not all bath and soap.

Though Pierre's own face was in the shadow, the last of the firelight lit his eyes, flickered across his nose and mouth, and swept the damp strands of hair that clung to his face.

"Did you do it?" He asked so softly, so unexpectedly, Francis nearly revealed himself.

Pierre had not come to lie with him but to ask questions a sleeping man could not answer. Did he refer to the attack on his baggage train, or the fate of his nephews as Pierre believed it to be? Either or both, something made him doubt.

He sighed. "You're just a figment." With a rustle of cloth, Pierre turned and, a moment later, closed the door behind him.

Francis drew a deep breath and blew it above his head. Never had a man so disturbed him. He ought to leave him at Cirque, lock him in a tower room if that was what it took to be certain he didn't disappear again. Of course, it wasn't that simple, especially where Isabella was concerned.

He bunched his pillow and jammed it beneath his head. Sleep was a long time coming, but when it arrived, he dreamed as he had not done in years—of a man, elusive, light-haired, knowing beyond his time.


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

Arthur felt like a child trapped in the back seat of a car. But it was worse than that. Not only were pounding hooves a far cry from tires and shock absorbers, but Francis was no padded seat. And for a seat belt, he had to make do with Francis' arm curved around his ribs and a hand to his waist.

He closed his stinging eyes against the careening scenery. He was tired, his three or four hours of sleep insufficient for a day that had begun long before the sun showed itself. In the middle of some forgotten dream—strange as it seemed, a dream within a dream—Eric had bustled him out of bed and into the overcoat and tunic that Isabella's maid must have spent the night altering. Not that it fit well.

Though Arthur preferred jeans and basic shirts to designer labels, he had hoped the clothes would flatter his rediscovered strength. But at least it was itchless.

Arthur opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder into Francis' face. Mouth a thin line, he trained his gaze ahead. Where was he? In the past with its faces of war, or the future that promised another kind of war—the one between him and Sir Gilbert?

Next, Arthur considered Sir Arjan who rode back and to the right of Francis'. He also seemed someplace else. Although Lady Isabella had opposed her cousin joining the search for the children, Francis had accepted when the man offered himself and eight of Cirque's men-at-arms. Thus, Isabella decided she would also accompany them. Fortunately, Francis had vetoed her. The look she shot Arthur before disappearing up the stairs was sweltering. And so, with the sun beating on them between clouds that hinted at rain, the day weathered on.

"You are hungry?" Francis asked.

"I am."

Shortly, Francis led his men into the bordering wood to a stream, dismounted, and reached to Arthur.

He went into his arms. The brush of him against Francis turned up the volume of his pulse. Francis' warm breath on his neck and face turned it up further.

"Nay," Francis murmured, "I did not do it."

What? Then Arthur remembered, and with remembrance came embarrassment. Francis had been awake last night, had watched as Arthur clasped the night garment to himself and asked a question that his answering silence had indicated he slept.

Arthur drew a deep breath. "Well, that makes me feel better."

"Does it?"

Why was Francis still holding it to him? "I can manage on my own, Mr. Bonnefoy."

Francis released him and nodded toward a copse of trees. "'Twill assure your privacy."

To "relieve" himself. Lovely. "Thank you."

Francis smiled.

Arthur wished he wouldn't do that. Francis' warming toward him was wearing a hole in his defenses and giving rise to traitorous flutterings. He made a beeline for the copse.

When he returned, a man outfitted as a soldier rode toward Francis where he stood beside the stream. Arthur didn't recognize him, but since he was accompanied my one of the men Francis had posted at the outer edge of the wood, he guessed he was a newcomer.

"Rodriguez," Francis called. "Bring you word from my brother?"

His brother? Arthur frowned, but then realized it wasn't Francis' nephews' deceased father of whom he spoke but the disagreeable younger brother Arthur had met at Givry. Antonio, wasn't it?

"I do, my lord."

Arthur made it to Francis' side as the messenger reined in.

The man dismounted, grimaced as if his ride had been as long as the one that made Arthur's legs shaky. "My lord ordered that I deliver you this missive."

Francis accepted it. "Refresh yourself ere you return to Givry." Francis jutted his chin to where his men gathered upstream. As if in no hurry to learn what was so important it had to be delivered by pony express, Francis thumbed the wax seal, then tucked the paper into his belt. He bent to the stream and splashed cold water on his face.

"Aren't you going to read it?" Arthur asked.

Francis looked up. "When Squire Jacques returns."

"What does he have to do with it?"

Francis stood. "For one who gives few answers, you ask many questions."

"Call me inquisitive."

Francis used his sleeve to wipe the water from his face. "Squire Jacques is my reader."

"I don't understand."

"When I have not my steward to read for me, as when I am gone from the castle, the task falls to Jacques."

Arthur nearly dropped his jaw. "You don't scrub your own back _and_ you don't do your own reading?"

Annoyance skittered across Francis' face. "One by choice, Lord Pierre, the other by necessity. Could I read the missive, I would."

An old ache bubbled to Arthur's surface. "You don't know how to read?"

Francis shrugged. "I read poorly. In that there is no shame."

Wasn't there? Arthur's mother had known shame, still did despite coping skills so finely honed that her second husband had yet to discover her struggle. "Do you have a learning problem?"

From Francis' expression, it was as if he had asked if he had three heads.

"I mean, was it hard for you to learn how to read or were you just not interested?"

Francis' annoyance returned full force. "Tell me, Lord Pierre, for what do I need to read when another can do it for me?" Without waiting for an answer, he turned and began walking downstream.

Wincing at the rough ground under his thin soles, Arthur hurried after him. "It's surprising, that's all."

Francis turned. "Nay, that one cannot ride a horse is surprising, especially when one is of the nobility—or claims to be."

Eager to avoid the subject, Arthur pressed on. "It's not too late. You could still learn to read."

"Why?"

"Everything revolves around the written word. It's…important."

"And riding is not?"

Arthur squirmed. "In this day and age, I suppose."

"You live in this _day and age_. Mayhap reading is more important in Oz, but in France, 'tis command of one's horse that calls the battle."

Talk about backward! Francis had a letter from his brother that was surely important and was held hostage by what Arthur guessed was an unwillingness to learn how to read. "Surely someone else can read it to you?"

"There is no one."

"No one here knows how to read?"

"Some can, but those whom I trust read no better than I."

Interesting. Though, supposedly, these were his "men," it seemed he was watching his back. "What about me?"

Francis' lids narrowed. "You?"

Amazing how Francis could make a three-letter word ring with the reputation of one of four letter. "I can read it."

Francis considered him, then held out the missive.

Arthur broke the wax seal and unrolled to the tune of thick, black writing. _Oh no_. Though this dream had returned his health to him, it hadn't done a thing for his far-sightedness. He squinted and found a semblance of focus only to run into another obstacle. The letter wasn't written in English. It was in French, which he had struggled with, but managed to get a fair enough grasp on in college.

"Well?" Francis asked.

"Just a moment."

"Did you not profess to know how to read?"

"I _do_ know how to read. It's just that the handwriting is poor." Did that sound as unconvincing to him as it did to Arthur? "Your brother must have been pressed for time."

"Pressed for time…" Francis shrugged. "He may have been, but 'twas not likely he who wrote the missive."

"So he doesn't know how to write?"

"He does. Some."

Arthur lowered his gaze and landed on the word "Farfallow" near the bottom of the page. He knew the name. It was the monastery that hosted the fatal confrontation between Francis and Sir Gilbert.

"Are you going to speak my brother's words or not?"

Arthur swallowed. "It says, 'Brother, I send you"—he might as well translate it to his own understanding—"greetings from Givry. We yet have… no word of Beilschmidt and the children." He affected to clear his throat while silently reading the next passage. _Though it may be naught, one of my men tells of having seen Sir Gilbert in private conversation with the monk who passed the night at Givry last month. As the monk was from the monastery of Farfallow, a day and a half ride from Cirque, mayhap you ought to stop there._

"What else does it say?"

This was _his_ dream, and Arthur wasn't about to have blood shed in it. "It…that…" As Francis claimed to be a poor reader, meaning he managed to some degree, did he dare skip over Farfallow? If he did and Francis later looked at the letter, he might recognize the name and have another read it to him—unless Arthur was able to dispose of the missive.

_In your dreams_. Though Francis might be a fool enough to let Arthur read it, he didn't trust him any further than that.

"Continue, Lord Pierre."

"He says all is well at Givry and wishes you…Godspeed." As he returned the missive to Francis, he sent up a prayer that he wouldn't have his squire read it.

"Thank you, Lord Pierre. You have been of service to me." Francis strode to his horse, patted its neck, and tucked the missive in one of the packs. "You think you could learn me to read?" Francis asked over his shoulder.

Though as a teen Arthur had been determined to help his mother break the code, nearly every attempt had ended in frustration. "I don't think so."

A passing breeze flirted with the hair at Francis' brow, lifted it, sifted it, sent strands into his lashes. "Still we shall try, hmm? In exchange, I shall teach you how to ride."

Arthur nearly choked. "I don't think so."

"A lord ought to know how to handle a horse."

In the words Francis had earlier spoken, Arthur found a lifeline. "Why do I need to handle a horse when someone else can do it for me?"

Francis returned to his side and flashed that new smile that worked miracles on his scarred countenance and caused Arthur's fingers to tingle. "Because, my lord, two astride is too intimate for those who are not yet intimate with each other. 'Tis most uncomfortable, do you not agree?"

Arthur gulped. "Yes."

"Then we shall begin this day. You will take the reins when we ride from here."

"_Your_ horse's reins?" Arthur looked to the beast. To his dismay, the horse appeared to be watching him—taunting him with those enormous wet eyes. "I don't think this is a good idea."

Francis' hand closed around Arthur's arm. "First overcome fear. If you do not, it will be the horse that rides you." Francis' strength easily conquering Arthur's resistance, he pulled him along. "It is the most important lesson. Once you learn it, all else follows."

Arthur's feet skidded over the ground. "What about lunch? I'm thirsty and hungry."

"After I have presented you to my horse."

"We've already met."

"Not properly."

As they neared, the horse snorted.

"No fear," Francis spoke sharply.

"Oh, believe me"—Arthur strained backward—"I know fear."

"Nay, Lord Pierre, _have_ no fear." Francis released him. "Don't move. Just watch." Francis smoothed a hand down the animal's shoulder, moved to its head and stroked its jowl. "It has been a long day, and you have served me well, my friend."

The horse pushed its muzzle into his palm and blew loudly.

"Aye, you have."

How calming Francis' voice was, almost enough to make Arthur assume a cross-legged position.

"Know you Lord Pierre?" Francis nodded at where Arthur stood. "He of fair face and long—very long—legs?"

They weren't _that _long! Francis was even taller than he was!

"He has come to meet you proper." Francis put his face near the beast's. "Be gentle now." He motioned Arthur forward.

Arthur unstuck his right foot, then left. _No fear._ Francis stepped aside when he was face to face with the horse. Arthur swallowed hard. Though he had thought it was bad to bounce around atop the creature, this was worse.

The horse made a low "huh-huh" sound and laid an ear back.

Arthur flashed Francis a tight smile. "Satisfied?"

"Talk to him—calmly. As you do, move to his shoulder and smooth your hand down it."

Arthur took a leaden step to the side. "Nice horsie." He grimaced when the animal turned its head to follow him. "Very nice horsie."

"Horsie?" Francis regurgitated.

"What's wrong with it?"

"It lacks command."

"You never said anything about command. You said to speak calmly. Which is it?"

Impatience lit Francis' eyes. "Think of him as a man, Lord Pierre—one from whom you require a favor. Surely you know what to do."

Arthur cooled his outrage with a reminder of the man he played. "Aye, I do," he put a medieval spin on his speech, "and very well, thank you."

"Show me."

Arthur held Francis' gaze, lifted a hand to the horse's shoulder, and spoke quiet words.

He didn't look away when Francis' incredibly blue eyes turned black, when he stepped forward, when his head lowered, when his mouth closed over Arthur's. It was as if they stared into one another, seeing what no other had seen. This time Arthur didn't resist. He felt Francis kiss through every part of him, shared his every breath, and melted.

Without realizing he had closed his eyes, Arthur slipped his arms around Francis' neck. He felt so real, as if Arthur had not dreamed him into being. Feeling the rasp of Francis' beard, he opened his mouth.

Francis pulled back.

Arthur blinked and, becoming aware of raised voices, saw Francis had shifted his regard to something on the other side of the horse. Arthur followed his gaze to where a fight had broken out, and for which he ought to be eternally grateful. Ought to be, though regret burrowed within him. Francis—

What was wrong with him? He was _Bonnefoy_, not Francis. And it was only a kiss. Wasn't it?

Francis released Arthur and his strides ate up the distance separating him from those who thrashed on the ground.

How many were there? Three? Four? Amid grunts and curses, above the buzz of onlookers, came the gleam of a knife. Then Francis was in the fray, throwing the men apart, a moment later standing between the two who panted at his feet—Squire Jacques and a knight Arthur recognized as one of Baron Cardell's.

Here was his chance…. Supressing his fear of the horse, he moved along its body to a point behind the saddle and laid hands to the pack.

"Sir Waite, for what do you dishonor yourself by scrabbling with my squire?" Francis threw a hand toward the young man whose face bled a long thin line.

The knight slowly unfolded from the ground. "When one questions a man's honor and loyalty"—he slapped dust from his shirt—"he ought to be prepared to offer up evidence. This _pup_ did so charge me before all." Waite retrieved his knife and held it up for all to see the blood on it. "By my blade, I vow he shall do so no more."

"Sheathe your dagger," Francis commanded.

The knight glanced at where Baron Cardell stood back from the others.

"Now!"

Sir Waite drove the dagger into its sheathe.

"Squire Jacques, what say you?"

The young man gained his feet, took a step toward Francis, and swayed. "One ought not to speak ill of his liege." There was a quaver in his voice. "As you are my lord, so you are Sir Waite's through Baron Cardell, and 'tis time he and the others accept it."

As Arthur stared at Francis whose brow furrowed as he listened to Sir Waite's denial, he heard the rattle of the missive beneath his fingers. Fortunately, the pack's ties were loosely knotted. As he released them, angry words were exchanged on the other side of the horse. Heart racing, Arthur lifted the flap.

The horse tossed its head and sidestepped.

Arthur peeked over the animal's back. Thankfully, the horse hadn't called attention to him—yet. He tried again and once more met resistance. Obviously the horse knew he was up to no good. He patted his haunch. "Good boy."

The horse whinnied.

Fearing he was about to be caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Arthur stole a glance at Francis who remained in the middle of the altercation. Keeping his gaze on him, he pulled the missive from the pack.

"In future, Squire Jacques," Francis said, "do not think to defend me. My brother's men, now mine"—he looked to Sir Waite and Baron Cardell—"answer to me."

The boy looked contrite. "Forgive me, my lord."

Arthur glanced at his ill-gotten gain. Where to hide it? Down his shirt? In his sock? He shoved it up his sleeve.

Francis loomed over Cardell's knight. "Are you my man, Sir Waite?"

A hesitation. "I am, my lord."

"Then heed me. Forsake your vow of fealty and by _my_ blade your life will be forfeit."

"I am to you as I was to your brother—your faithful servant."

Arthur turned his attention to how best to dispose of the missive. The copse would be perfect. However he had only half a dozen step under his belt when Francis called to him.

Knowing he was turning the color of guilt, Arthur looked around and found Francis striding toward him "Is everything all right?" Arthur asked.

"No, but it will save until Abel and Philippe are found."

Which brought him back to the missive. He resumed his course.

"We are not finished, Lord Pierre."

Did he refer to the riding lesson or the kiss? Was one the lesser of two evils? The horse, he decided as he neared the copse. Definitely the horse.

Francis stepped into his path. "Where are you going?"

"To take care of a little business." He pretended embarrassment. "You know…that privacy thing."

"Again?"

He put a hand over his abdomen. "I'm not feeling well."

"Not feeling well or…" Francis lowered his gaze to Arthur's mouth. "…running away?"

Actually, he had been feeling a little off lately. He raised his chin. "What do I have to run away from?"

"You would like me to demonstrate?"

"No, thank you. Now, if you don't mind, I'll take care of my business." He stepped around Francis.

"Do not make me come after you, lord Pierre."

Francis thought he might ditch him? "I wouldn't dream of it." He scurried out of sight.

It took longer than expected, but he buried the evidence of his deception. Though he knew that when the missive was discovered missing he would likely be blamed, he would deal with it then.

Upon returning to the stream, Arthur found Francis deep in conversation with Baron Cardell. He put his hands on his hips and breathed a sigh of relief.

Sir Arjan appeared and regarded Arthur out of bloodshot eyes. "Hungry?"

"Starving."

With a smile that shaved years off a face painted by what was probably a hangover, Arjan presented an apple and a piece of dried meat. "I brought you these—and a skin of wine."

How Arthur missed bottled water, but no chance of that here. Or was there? He looked to the stream.

"Lord Pierre?"

He accepted Arjan's offering. "Thank you. I was just wondering whether or not the water is fit to drink."

"'Tis a distance from the nearest village. Still I would not chance it."

Arthur was about to conceded it wasn't worth the risk when that old reminder that this was all in his head set down. "I believe I will." He knelt beside the stream.

"Methinks Lord Bonnefoy would not approve," Sir Arjan warned.

Arthur rolled up his sleeves. "He can disapprove all he likes. I'm going to have a drink." The water was refreshing, moistening his lips, tongue, and throat, and washing away where Francis had been.

A half dozen handfuls later, he stood.

"You are most unusual, Lord Pierre."

"I'll take that as a compliment, Sir Arjan." He bit into the crisp apple.

"But I do wonder if you are, indeed, King Charles' Lord Pierre."

Arthur nearly coughed up the apple. "How is that?"

"My cousin thinks not."

Lady Isabella, ever the thorn in his side. "And do you believe everything you're told?"

Arjan's brow creased. "Are you Lord Pierre?"

He asked it with such intensity, such genuine need Arthur considered telling him the truth. But he wouldn't believe his tale any more than Francis had. "Of course I am."

Arjan smiled a boyishly repentant apology. "I wish that you were not."

Arthur was jolted. Though, as a Professor, he had grown accustomed to the occasional crush, he had missed the signs with this man. "Why?"

Arjan put a hand on his sword hilt and rubbed his palm over it. "Because Lord Pierre belongs to another. Do you love him?"

Arthur gasped. "Fra—Lord Bonnefoy? What makes you think that?"

"I saw him kiss you, and you did not look to mind."

So Arjan had witnessed that. Arthur tool a bite of the overly salted meat, swallowed. "I am not in love with him."

"But you will wed him."

"The way I understand it, I have no choice."

"Mayhap you do not, but Lord Bonnefoy does."

"That's what he says, but does he?"

"Such a man as he will do whatever is needed to achieve his end. Yet, methinks he will wed you, which makes one wonder if you have cast a spell over him."

If not for Bonnefoy's warning, Arthur would have shrugged off the allusion of him having some sort of magic ability. "I assure you, I am not a warlock, Sir Arjan."

"Then how is it you disappear with nary a breath to trace your path? How is it you survived an attack that killed your entire escort?"

Deciding Arjan's first point was best left alone, Arthur replied to the second. "I don't know. The attack happened so fast."

"It must have been horrible."

"It was." And Arthur had only seen the aftermath.

"You do not know who attacked you and killed all those men?"

The scene to which he had awakened flashed in his mind, complete with the dying soldier who had denounced him. "No, but before one of the men died he told—" No. Though Sir Arjan's inquiry seemed genuine enough, there was no reason for Arthur to show his hand.

"What?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Concern etched Arjan's face. "Forgive me, my lord." He laid a hand on his arm. "I know you grieve—for the king's men and your servant. A terrible loss."

His servant, whom Arthur just might be. "Yes, terrible. Fortunately, my servant was not among those killed.

Sir Arjan blinked. "None but you survived. If what you say is so, where is the man?"

_Right in front of you—I think._ "He didn't accompany me."

"You had no servant?" Realization. "Then it was a groom you lost."

Whatever that was. "No. Other than my escort, I traveled alone."

"Surely the king would not allow that."

"I can take care of myself, Sir Arjan."

He stared. "Of that I have little doubt. Now I must ready myself to ride." Arjan inclined his head and came up grimacing.

Arthur touched his sleeve. "Are you all right?"

Arjan ground fingers into his temple. "'Twas foolish of me to drink so much last eve."

"You have a hangover."

"A what?"

"A headache—burning eyes, nausea, etcetra." Arthur lifted Arjan's hand and pinched the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. "This might help."

Arjan's pained expression turned suspicious. "Pray, what do you?"

"It's called acupressure. It's worked for e from time to time." Before all hope was lost. "Apply pressure for a minute or so and you should start to feel better."

"Do you speak sorcery, my lord?"

Arthur laughed. "You call a pinch sorcery?"

Arjan considered his hand in Arthur's. "'Tis most unusual."

Arthur smiled. "You'll see."

Arjan's uncertainty was soon replaced with wonder. "The pain is passing!"

Arthur released his hold. "I told you."

"You are certain 'tis not sorcery?"

"Positive."

"You are incredible, Lord Pierre. Where come you by such knowledge?"

"I pick up things here and there."

Arjan executed a bow that revealed a glimpse of chain at his neck.

Arthur frowned. Did he wear a medallion beneath his shirt as Francis did? If so, what markings did it bear? A feather? A crown? A wyvern? Was it possible he was involved in the attack? Though it was hard to believe, he was grateful he hadn't revealed what the dying soldier had said.

"Thank you, my lord." Arjan straightened. "You have been most kind."

"Too kind," Francis' voice grated on the air.

Arthur looked around and met his piercing blue gaze. Was he jealous? "I was introducing Sir Arjan to acupressure. He had a headache and I thought—"

"Tou your mount, Sir Arjan. We are leaving."

The knight sidestepped, caught Arthur's eye, and winked.

Arthur couldn't help but smile.

Francis halted before him. "For one who professes to feel poorly, you look and behave remarkably well."

"Amazing, isn't it?"

"Most." Francis leaned near. "Until time as King Charles releases me from marriage to you, you will forego such brazen displays. Do you understand?"

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. "What exactly, do you consider brazen?"

Francis' blue eyes looked as if they might boil over. "Do you deny you were holding Sir Arjan's hand?"

"I showed him an acupressure point—"

Francis grabbed his arm and propelled him toward his horse. "No more lest you find yourself staked and burned, from which not even King Charles will be able to save you."

Arthur tried to dig in his heels, but it was futile. "Acupressure has nothing to do with magic. The Chinese have been using—"

"Silence!"

Fine, let him remain in the dark ages.

Francis lifted him and plunked him down on the horse. "Take the reins."

"You're not really going to make me do this, are you?"

"Take them."

Arthur lifted the leather strap. "Now what."

"We ride." Francis swung up behind him.

The intimate press of his body held Arthur on edge during the six hours of riding instruction that saw them village to village, dead end to dead end.


End file.
